


Belts and Keys

by Quiet_Shadow



Category: Transformers: Animated
Genre: Chastity Device, Dubious Consent, Frottage, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Key Party, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Non-Penetrative Sex, Oral Sex, Past Rape/Non-con, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sex Games, Slavery, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Tribadism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-15
Updated: 2016-09-15
Packaged: 2018-08-15 05:33:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 28,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8044318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quiet_Shadow/pseuds/Quiet_Shadow
Summary: AU.Optimus and his team run afoul of Decepticons much earlier than any of them would have expected, long before coming in contact with the Allspark. It results in them bolstering the ranks of Lucifer's legion of slaves.Megatron had only come to Straxus' party because he needed to have Words with the Lord High Governor; he hadn't expected to get drawn in the night's peculiar form of entertainment... Nor to enjoying it so thoroughly.





	Belts and Keys

**Author's Note:**

> An odd idea I had this summer and which just begged to be written. I admit, I indulged myself ^^  
> The original idea for Straxus' party (which is also giving its title to the fic) comes from an episode of a series I saw a long time ago, though I can't remember if it was one of the CSI series or Criminal Minds. Mind you, it was with collars and not chastity belts, but the principe was the same. Wish I had a better memory.
> 
> **Warning** : Megatron isn't a nice mech -- though he's probably far nicer than most Decepticons on Straxus' payroll. See the tags to see what I mean.

Some slaves thought it was easier serving in Lord Straxus’ palace than working in the mines or manning the smelting pools.

Clearly, they had never paused to really think about what working in the palace truly implied.

Being assigned to the pools, the mines, the factories or the palace was, simply put, luck of the draw -- though certain altmodes and frametypes had better ‘luck’ to end up in such or such place. Optimus Prime, Bumblebee and Ratchet had ended in the palace, for example, while Bulkhead had been sent to the energon mines immediately. As for Prowl… who knew where he was, now? His escape pod hadn’t been captured, as far as Optimus knew, but that didn’t meant he was safe anyway.

In a way, it comforted him to think Bulkhead was in the mines; despite the harsh conditions, Bulkhead had, well, the bulk needed to survive there. And he didn’t have to deal with the indignities on those Straxus randomly picked out to serve him and his favorites personally. In truth, it had a lot to do with ‘prettiness’ or ‘unsuitability for heavy labor’ -- or ‘maintenance skills’, sometimes, like it had been the case for most of Optimus’ team.

He remembered Sentinel doing a snide comment, once, about Optimus needing to change his name to ‘Maintenance Prime’. A joyless smile spread over the red and blue mech’s face; if only he knew…

The ‘spacebridge’ aspect of their qualifications had been overlooked -- perhaps it hadn’t even been registered, who knew? -- and only ‘maintenance bots’ stuck out in their profile; thus why they had been chosen for their current task, something Optimus bitterly regretted.

When thinking of the palace, the other slaves probably only thought of the constant cleaning -- for despite Lucifer being so heavily polluted and ash and smoke staining everything and everyone, clogging vents and giving anyone with weak filters bad coughing fits, the Lord Straxus, Governor of Lucifer, insisted his dwelling was spotless. Sure, it was dull and tiring and you could spent megacycles upon megacycles on your knees, rubbing at new dirty spots on the ground, but it certainly beat being slowly worked to death in the harsher conditions outside.

But the slaves in the palace weren’t just overworked servants; they were also ‘entertainment’ for the Governor, his bodyguards, the standard guards and the guests -- and even the low ranked, Decepticon workers and supervisors who made sure to ‘motivate’ them to work faster with the judicious application of an electro-whip to the back.

Being under the constant threat of being killed for ‘fun’ and ‘sport’ or, by default, to end up being raped day after day by dozens of different mechs would have made the Autobots assigned to other tasks reconsider their relative ‘luck’. At least the guards at the mines or the smelting pools had little interest in such acts -- though there had been ‘incidents’.

Optimus considered himself lucky he was so big. Well, big for an Autobot, at any rate. He could handle being pushed flat on his back or shoved against a wall and used by whoever decided they wanted a quickie than most of his fellow Autobots. But even he suffered and ended with more intimate damages than he felt comfortable thinking about.

Thankfully, Lord Straxus was ‘merciful’ to his household slaves -- if one could truly call it mercy. Truly, the lumbering mech didn’t care much, if any, about any mech cleaning his floors, but Optimus suspected him of being simply pragmatic. Capturing Autobots or Neutral or Cybertronian subspecies wasn’t always as easy as it sounded, and teaching a constantly rotating staff of captured mechs exactly how he liked things to be done had to be become a bother after a while. In the end, it was easier to keep his household slaves in working condition than send them to the smelter the moment someone (accidentally or not) broke their wrists or dislocated a hip joint.

As such, Straxus saw to their repairs if they got too roughly handed by the rest of the staff, but said repairs were the minimum, and slaves weren’t allowed any rest or medical supplements to help boost their systems. Scars weren’t uncommon, nor were botched paintjobs, cracked optics, dented plating and the likes, to the medics’ eternal lamentation.

Optimus tried not to think of the look on Ratchet’s face the last time he had landed in the staff’s makeshift Medbay, spreading his legs wide for the medic to evaluate the damages with a cringe. He prefered to think of the comforting hand the old mech had put on his shoulder, squeezing gently, before Optimus had to leave the sanctuary of the medical ward. His team member and him had exchanged a long gaze, trying to draw strength from each other.

The Prime privately thought Ratchet’s fate was probably worse than his; his status as a medic ensured he wasn’t reduced to simple cleaning staff, so he didn’t have to work with the constant threat of the whip, the shock baton or whatever torture devices their supervisors favored, but every solar cycle, he had to treat the injuries of dozens of mechs, with little means and tools, and sent them back to get abused further with an heavy Spark, knowing he was just powerless to end the abuses -- and powerless to treat some of the more serious damages.

Take Bumblebee, for example. Optimus knew it had to haunt Ratchet as much as it did him, for Ratchet was their medic, but Optimus was Team leader -- or at least, he was supposed to be. And he hadn’t been able to do anything to protect the smaller, younger ‘bot…

There was saying, back on Cybertron -- though Optimus doubted it had originated from the planet itself, and was probably foreign if not organic in origin. ‘Speech is Silver, but Silence is Golden’. Those half-forgotten words had jumped to his processor the day the overseer had grabbed Bumblebee by the throat because the yellow Minibot had dared to hum and sing to himself while on the job.

Silence was the rule in the palace for the slaves, unless directly spoken to in order to confirm they had understood their orders. They communicated by gestures, by optical codes for those who knew it, by morse alphabet, by chirping, beeping and clicking if they had to, but nobody would and should have uttered a word outside of the barracks. Beatings often enforced the messages… and gags had often followed suit, reminding everyone to abide by the house rule. Slaves could be seen, but not heard, and nobody should forget it. Nobody… nobody, but the brave and sometimes forgetful Bumblebee.

Optimus would never forget the strangled, pained sounds coming out of that damaged vocalizer as it was slowly and methodically crushed by a steel fist. Nor would he ever forget the broken look on Bumblebee’s face as he was released from the Medbay, now silent but for the occasional beeping, his vocalizer too damaged for Ratchet to have pulled a miracle...

Suffice to say, the ‘example’ made of his teammate had worked, and even in the barracks, conversations barely rose above a whisper.

Though this morning, slaves weren’t just whispering, Optimus noticed as he emerged from recharge, optics slowly rebooting as he listened to furious whispers that tended to gain in intensity as more and more awoke mechs joined him.

Optimus didn’t. Optics half-shuttered, he was content to lie on his side and just listen to the rumor, an arm under his helm as a makeshift pillow while the other was hugging Bumblebee close to his frame. The younger, smaller ball was rolled in a ball, face pressed against the Prime’s chestplates, still out cold though probably not for long now. Overseers would barge in any cycle now, and then they’d have to rush out to take their long, long shift. But any supplementary cycle of recharge they could get was always a blessing, and he was reluctant to just shake Bumblebee awake.

He looked at him with a small smile of fondness, feeling reassured by the close if tightly held EM field and the steady beating of his Spark. That was the only good point in sharing a berth -- not that they had any choice in the matter, for the barracks were small, and each bunk berth had two or three occupants per slab. It wasn’t very comfortable, especially since there was no padding, but it felt safe. At least that way, you always knew whose frame was pressed against yours…

The doors suddenly slammed open with enough force to make the few remaining sleepers startle awake with confusion. Bumblebee made a beep of alarm as his CPU rebooted brutally and jerked, but thankfully Optimus’ grip on him was strong and he didn’t fall from the berth. Optimus sat and steadied him, helping him slide down to the floor before following, taking his place in the line heading outside as overseers barked orders at them to hurry up. Nothing unusual; the same thing happened at every dawn.

What was unusual, though, and which put the Prime and the rest of the slaves on edge, was the presence of Lord Straxus himself in the massive corridors as they were all lined up along the walls, shaking and confused, made to stand at attention while the massive behemoth of a Decepticon walked before them, pausing briefly at regular intervals to peer closely at one or two unfortunate slaves.

Optimus remained quiet and still as he was granted a quick but disgustingly appreciative look. He tried not to swallow nervously as the same kind of gaze was granted to Bumblebee, who stood barely a few mechs away.

Fortunately, Straxus did or said nothing, just passing them by before nodding curtly at one of the guards. They had probably talked over comms, because the next thing Optimus knew, guards were pushing them forward and separating them in teams. With practised ease, groups of mechs and femmes were send right and left, pushed forward or asides by guards who, and it was rare enough to mention, didn’t use their weapons to make them go faster.

“You, to the main corridors! You, the ceremony stairs! You, the ball room! I want a group scrubbing the mirrors, and another changing all the neons from the main entry to the ballroom! You, kitchen to make goodies and prepare energon cubes! You, the gardens! Another team to put the red carpets on the floors! Move it, you rust-packed glitches!”

Ah. So that was why the guards weren’t hitting them today.

Governor Straxus was throwing a party.

It filled Optimus with both tentative hope and dread.

Tentative hope, because parties’ preparation took time and care, and nobody would be slowing down the slaves in their work by handpicking them to bend them over the nearest flat surface -- should they fail to complete the preparation on time, Governor Straxus tended to be displeased, and punished the slave as well as the one who had made them tardy. It afforded the captive Autobots a small measure of protection.

But the dread was equally as strong, if not stronger, for if Straxus rarely threw a party (twice, thrice a stellar cycle perhaps), the massive Governor of Lucifer liked them to be ‘memorable’ one way or another. He rarely provided the same thing twice. And sadly, even if he sometimes hired performers for flavor, it was his endless legions of slaves who tended to provide the ‘entertainment’.

Sometimes, whatever the ‘entertainment’ was would be benign -- a reenactment of the Decepticons’ most famous battle with stun weapons, a poetry night (which had been dreadful), a play from Cybertron’s darker past, a concert where the slaves who knew how to play an instrument were used for their talents,...

But sometimes as well, said ‘entertainment’ could be lethal. The ‘murder party’ had turned up to contain real murders and weapons lying around, leading to tense moments and fervently if silently praying slaves as they hoped they wouldn’t be the next to die. More recent and far more ignoble, Optimus still freshly remembered the ‘Carnival of Horrors’, as him and the rest of the staff had dubbed and still referred to it in ushed conversations.

How could you forget the sheer terror on a damaged mech’s face as he sat, knees against his chest, above a dunk tank filled with scraplets, ready to tear him apart the moment a ball would hit the target, all while the Decepticons taking part in the ‘game’ laughed loudly, and betted on how much time the scraplets would take to devour him? To say nothing of the ‘magician’ who had sawed ‘bots in pieces, or the ‘clowns’ armed with acid-throwing flowers...

Optimus had had nightmares for a full stellar cycle after that one.

He wasn’t the only one, obviously. But while there were some soft keens and whines of fear, nobody said anything. They were too well trained for that. Optimus tried to smile reassuringly at Bumblebee as they were pointed toward the group leaving for the kitchens. The Minibot was obviously terrified, but the Prime couldn’t reach for him and give him an encouraging pat like he would have liked -- the guards were still watching closely and barking orders, and they weren’t ones to accept ‘unnecessary sensibilities’ happen. Instead, he did something he rarely did anymore -- flash his EM briefly toward the younger ‘bot, hoping the flare was too discreet to bring too much attention to himself. Slaves learned to keep them fairly controlled and close, for Governor Straxus ‘wouldn’t suffer drowning in misery in his own home, unless it was of his choosing.’

He was in luck; nobody outside of the nearest slaves felt it, and none of them would denounce him. One or two glanced his way with rueful, sad smiles; obviously, they were the kind who also offered meager comfort like they could. Optimus just smiled back at them, though he had to stop once they reached the kitchen.

From there, most of the day was a blur for him.

There was simply no time to truly stop and think as they took the precious crystal cups and flutes out of their special storage and cleaned them until they shone, making sure none of them had been chipped before by rough, uncaring partygoers. They scrubbed the tables, filled and emptied the sinks as dishware accumulated on the side, scrubbed the silver and platinum, gold or jewels-encrusted trays taken out of their cases and lined them up on the tables, and disposed the sturdy Antillan porcelain plates over them after making sure they were spotless.

Duos of mechs came in and out of the kitchen, rolling in barrels of rare blends and exotic fuels and oils alike that would be used for cocktails and side drinks as fancy as those served in Maccadam’s and Cybertron’s finest bars and restaurants. High Grade kegs and vintage Engex caskets were slowly being lined up alongside the walls, ready to be pierced in order to fill the glasses -- and already overseers and general kitchen personnels were debating if there was enough for now or if more should be brought in already. From the frowns, heated words and sharp orders, they had obviously decided that no, it wouldn’t be sufficient. Not that it surprised Optimus; by now, he knew Decepticons were never satiated when it came to High Grade. True black holes, they were…

Not that he said it aloud, or even hinted what he thought in his moves or his EM field. Besides, even if he had wanted, he wouldn’t have been able to utter a word. His lips and dental plates worked uneasily around the ball gag that had been shoved in his mouth; that thing was tight, and although he was used to wear it (sort of), it never became any easier… or any less painful. Especially when he was expected to wear it for long, and he would.

That was the main downside to work in the kitchen. Governor Straxus’ ‘free’ staff had their ‘rules’, and their ‘rules’ included muzzling any and all slaves assigned to work in the kitchen, for fear they’d try to steal and gorge themselves on the fuel they were preparing so intently for their Lord and his guests. It made sense, really, though Optimus thought privately it was stupid as well; no slave in his right mind would have stolen fuel, for if they got caught, a beating from the staff would be the least of their worries. The most they could and would have done would have been to lick their digits clean after finishing to prepare the Energon cream, the chrome-alloy cake dough or the mercury sauce. But even that was impossible, and not a drop of fuel was wasted, no matter the form it took.

It was all wistful thinking anyway, and there was no time to dwell on it for more than a cycle. Someone barked behind him and Optimus gritted the iron bars he was holding faster in order to make the iron filling seasoning which was so popular for Cybertronians. Slowly, the kitchens were filled with the scent of goodies as the slaves worked over the food. Lead sulfide crystals were minced and crushed, beryllium baloney and cesium salami was sliced, pots over pots of mercury sauce were prepared, giant chrome-alloy cakes and pies were cooked then sliced to make as many parts as possible, while individual oil cakes and tiny Energon puffs were disposed artistically over the plates before being decorated with edible jewels and gritted, glinting metal supplements.

It was beautiful to look at, and probably tasted just as wonderful. Optimus’ tank rumbled as he tried to ignore them, standing at attention as the overseers inspected the table he had been working on. They must have decided it was good, because they passed by without a comment, making him almost slump in relief. His frame was almost wavering and it took a constant effort to remain upright. The Prime hadn’t been allowed a break nor his usual meager energon allotment of the day since they had been woke up, and he was starting to truly feel the effects.

Still, as someone barked for the slaves to ‘hit the washracks, immediately’, he couldn’t help but tense. Those words, that tone,... it could never be good. Besides, it was far too soon to to be allowed to clean up; usually it happened in the dead of the night, when most of them were too shaky on their pedes from exhaustion and hunger to even stand upright under the water jets -- cold, or lukewarm if they were lucky; hot water was a luxury they couldn’t afford, though to be fair, Lucifer’s air was so hot naturally none of them could complain about cold.

Dread settled deeper into his frame as he was pinged, a brief but firm command requesting he’d present himself to the slaves’ Medbay right after his shower. He exchanged a look with the mech next to him, who was swallowing nervously. Looked like him too had received the command -- as did most of the kitchen-assigned slaves, by the look of it. Whom, now Optimus had a chance to truly look around, all seemed to be of the same type: young or youngish, and passably attractive.

Which meant…

Optimus shuttered his optics briefly. He had the feeling that tonight, he’d be part of the ‘entertainment’, one way or another.

*-*-*-*-*

A party on Straxus’ Pit-hole of a planet.

Tss.

What he wouldn’t do to actually get to talk with his assigned Governor face to face!

Without hating them per se, Megatron, Lord of the Decepticon and exiled, rightful Supreme Ruler of Cybertron, had little use for parties.

He had no need for small, supposedly polite talks with mechs he couldn’t care less about and were frequently trying to stab him in the back, nor for drinking fancy fuel when they had so much trouble actually getting the stuff. Not to mention that he had to concentrate on finding the Allspark and retake the planet which had been stolen from them by the Autobots.

Oh, he wasn’t going to begrudge his Decepticons the occasional celebrations, for they did wonder for the troops’ morale, and Megatron himself couldn’t deny he appreciated a good High Grade vintage in good company, and he didn’t mind getting overcharged on it so long he knew nobody was going to try to pull a dagger on him -- which happened rarely but still did from times to times, be it from poorly timed attempts at overthrowing him -- let’s be honest, Starscream had been every bits as drunk as him, which was the only reason Megatron had allowed him to live back then -- or Autobot double-agents finally pulling their moves.

But between a party thrown by Straxus and an assassination attempt? He prefered to deal with the assassination. At least he could get rid of the assassin without an afterthought. Getting rid of Straxus, now, that was much harder to do, even if he knew his appointed High Lord Governor was just as treacherous as Starscream and possibly (certainly) planning his death.

He had no certain proof… yet. But Megatron wasn’t a foul and knew how to read the sign and follow a trail of (overlooked, discreet) clues. The last assassin who came after him had prefered to offline himself rather than reveal anything about his employer, but they were always ways to track down money, even when it was cash or Energon chips. How truly amazing Straxus’ Energon reports failed to mention he had ‘lost’ three dozens of pure high-octane, Liquid Energon cubes from Lucifer’s reserves!

If he had been a less tempered mech, Megatron would have already applied his fusion cannon to Lucifer’s Governor’s helm and blasted it apart. But Megatron, unlike what some fool thought, was patient. Very patient. He wasn’t about to make a move without enough proof and risk alienation Straxus’ supporters or provocate a civil war which would have damaged Lucifer’s installation or retarded their planet objective to take back Cybertron.

Thus why he had come, answering the Governor’s invitation to partake in some ‘innocent fun’.

And if General Strika and Blitzwing were shadowing his steps… What, purely coincidental, nothing that’d make mechs think Megatron was afraid for his security! Everyone knew General Strika was an old friend who was never far from her Lord and who held Straxus’ harsh way to rule and waste of slave labor in contempt, while Blitzwing was just so damn imprevisible since the experimentations he endured from new scientist Blackarachnia that no matter the way he acted, it’d be commented upon.

He lazily looked around as they crossed the front gardens of Straxus’ palace. Was that an energon fountain -- not, wait, two energon fountains? How… gaudy. Of course, Lucifer was providing the newly revived Decepticon Empire with energon and energy to spare, but to spend them on something so wasteful, and so atrocious-looking -- Primus Almighty, those statues were hideous to look at! -- was perfectly tasteless! He dared to think even Starscream, who was also fond of showing off his status, wouldn’t have invested in such monstrosity.

At least the crystals outcrops were artistically arranged and rather elegant, but he would have been surprised if Straxus himself had ordered their positioning and cutting… Same thing for the white marble and rich, plush red carpets that served to pave his palace; he frankly doubted the lumbering, graceless mech had had the good idea to use the material by himself. And the rainbow-colored, gigantic chandelier made of singing crystals hanging about the stairs in entry hall were certainly not his idea. He didn’t know who had done the decoration, but Megatron wondered if the mech (or femme, for they usually had impeccable taste) responsible was still alive. Unlikely, given Straxus’ tendency to throw people in the nearest smelting pool if they displeased him (even if, from recent records, said tendency had dropped those last stellar cycles; obviously, Megatron’s flat refusal to assign more and more slaves to Lucifer had bore its fruits. Somewhat).

Too bad. Megatron would have liked to hire them to redo the Metroplex and Trypticon’s decoration after his final victory on the Autobots. Straxus’ ruthlessness and lack of forward thinking had probably cost Cybertron a true artist.

But speaking of the treacherous Governor… 

“What an honor you’re granting me by coming to my humble dwelling, Lord Megatron!”

Megatron allowed a cold smile to spread over his face as he nodded somewhat gracefully at his host. Frame neatly polished, dark colors almost shining with the various layers of wax and the light of high-powered lamps, the Governor of Straxus breathed opulence, and his EM field, largely projected around him, reeked of self-satisfaction, smug like a Cyber-Cat but far less nice to look at.

Thankfully Megatron had managed to convince Lugnut to stay on the shuttle and guard it from possible saboteurs, the Warlord thought briefly. Loyal to a fault Lugnut might be, but he had the subtly of a cybertitanium brick wall and couldn’t act to save his life. Confronted with Straxus, whom Megatron had shared his distrust for, he probably would have already blasted the Governor’s face off already. That wouldn’t have done at all.

“Governor,” he said smoothly as a greeting but without commenting further, making Straxus fumble a little. Clearly, he had expected more -- but then again, Megatron was a mech of few words, and he should have expected a short greeting. Especially since his Lord and Master was unhappy with him, for far more official reasons than an assassination attempt which couldn’t be properly traced down to him. The smugness in Straxus’ field wavered.

“Did you travel safely, my Lord? You seem… tense,” the Governor offered placidly, getting a hold on his feelings and smoothing them over. Smart mech. Megatron’s ability to make deep readings of energy fields wasn’t very well-known outside of a certain circle -- of which Straxus certainly wasn’t part of -- but there always were rumors, and Straxus was smart enough to heed them.

But apparently not smart enough to avoid committing treachery. Intelligence always had its limits, sadly.

“Nothing a good cube of energon won’t settle,” the Warlord replied on the same tone. “Though you and I should speak of your latest report. I find it suspiciously lacking in some areas -- after all, I’m certain that you wouldn’t have made forays into Lucifer’s moons without my express permission, nor would you have build more smelting pools despite the lack of qualified personnel to maintain them in peak condition… Would you?” he asked candidly, and he didn’t quite smile as a brief look of panic crossed Straxus’ face. Obviously, he hadn’t thought Megatron knew.

Fool. Did he truly think everyone on the planet, among his assistants, among his guards, eck, even among his slaves -- for Megatron wasn’t above using an Autobot or two in exchange of their future, hypothetical liberty if they survived Straxus’ rough handling? -- were all in his subspace pockets? A Decepticon’s true loyalty was to Megatron’s first, and his assigned Generals or Governors second.

In itself, he had nothing against the mining of the moons of Lucifer for rare metals they needed to build weapons for war against the Autobots. But the mining wasn’t supposed to happen for several more vorns, as the moons of Lucifer were intended to be used as an emergency reserve only. Of course, given they had recently lost Thrull and its gigantic reserves of energy, Straxus might have taken upon himself to start digging what could be digged out of the moons to paliate the energy loss in the rest of the budding Empire… but Megatron wondered what percentage of the raw mining disappeared in the Governor’s subspace pocket.

Anyway, starting to use the moons shouldn’t have happened without Megatron’s express permission first. Granted, he probably would have given it, at least until their planned invasion of the planet Macron in the Falcon Nexus allowed them access to other sources of minerals and energon, but Straxus going behind his back to start the mining was a slight Megatron wouldn’t let go easily. Just in case it was giving the Governor ideas.

And then there was the smelting pools, and his spies report their general state was substandard at best, especially after a displeased Governor Straxus had thrown the Head Engineer charged of their maintenance in one of said pools for ‘insubordination’ -- in truth, because said Head Engineer had tried to let the Governor know they couldn’t keep the production level so high and that they needed to shut several of the pools for reparation. The spies’ report quoted him as having explained that ‘keeping the pools running at this heat without reinforcing the bottom and the walls was an industrial accident waiting to happen’.

Obviously, Governor Straxus hadn’t like the message, and had opted to shoot the messenger rather than heed a perfectly reasonable advice. Idiot.

Very bad days asides, Megaton didn’t slay the bearers of bad news. It was rarely their fault they had something unpleasant to announce, and a smoking corpse on the ground didn’t magically erase a problem. So far, Straxus still had to have those pools properly inspected and repaired. More smelting pools were good… but only so long they runned at full capacity, and making new ones to paliate a drop in production in the other didn’t cancel the fact the older, weaker ones were ready to break down.

Something Megatron would be sure to address as well.

Still sounding candide, he added. “But perhaps it is an honest mistake, or a misunderstanding on my part? Rest assured, Governor, that I don’t intend to trouble your… party by addressing those concerns tonight, of course.” Straxus’ shoulders, which had become taut with tension, obviously relaxed. Just a fraction, of course, but to Megatron and probably for Strika as well, if he had to judge by her discreet snort, it was quite telling.

“I’m not in the mood to talk work tonight.” A white lie; he would have prefered it actually, but now he was on Lucifer and the matter had been addressed publicly in front of guests who had heard the exchange between them, there was no true hurry anymore. Straxus couldn’t flee without looking like a culprit and a traitor now. “But if you could report to the Nemesis in the morning…?” he trailed off, offering -- or rather, genuinely ordering his subordinate around with enough steel in his voice to know he wouldn’t tolerate a refusal. “We could hopefully discuss the matter calmly, between civilized mechs.”

“O… Of course, my Lord Megatron,” Straxus answered, and he barely stammered. His EM field rippled uneasily, fluctuating in intensity and letting some fear goes through, but not quite as badly as Megatron would have expected. Hmm. Obviously, the Governor had already prepared some arguments to defend his actions. Evidently, Straxus hadn’t thought his illegal mining would go unnoticed -- though he probably hadn’t expected the discovery to happen so quickly.

Twice the fool then, and General Strika didn’t hesitate to state as such over her private comm line. Actually, her language was far more coarse, and Megatron had to fight down a smirk as she got, ah, creative. Autobots pretended Decepticons had no education, that they couldn’t understand the concept of a thesaurus. Well, they certainly had never met his General of Destruction face to face.

:: _The last one was quite amusing,_ :: he transmitted back in a light-hearted tone as Straxus delivered more platitude and showed them the way inside, climbing the stairs while delivering platitudes -- and ignoring most of his other guests as he did. Hmph. Rude.

Thankfully, the other mech didn’t hover around, obviously understanding his company wasn’t needed anymore for the moment. Before leaving, however, he guided his newest row of guests toward a round table erected in the middle of the ballroom.

Megatron raised an optic. There was no fuel on it -- actually, there was no food anywhere his gaze wandered to, despite the thickness of the crowd which was starting to gather round. He could make out simple, sturdy black sofas disposed in half-circles in several places, and little alcoves had been created between pillars by tending long, colorful sheets between them, creating cozy places that could easily be ‘closed’ by pulling on makeshifts curtains. Curious. Though he supposed Straxus was just seeing to basic comfort and privacy for conversation, and was waiting for the stragglers to come in before serving refreshments.

But if there was no Engex glasses and no energon goodies tray, the table was still occupied. On white linen, a large crystal vessel was filled to the brink with small metallic objects which, upon inspection, were revealed to be…

Keys?

How peculiar.

“If you would pick one, Lord Megatron,” Straxus bowed before him, and Megatron shrugging, plunged his hand deep inside the vessel. “One only, my Lord, it’s the rule,” the Governor added again as the Warlord’s fist closed around a handful.

“And why is that?”

“It’s all part of the entertainment for tonight, my Lord. I won’t be spoiling the surprise yet, but you’ll definitely need a key to, ah, enjoy yourself. Only, since it’s a game of luck, I can’t let everyone take several keys just yet.” Large hands wriggled.

“As you wish,” Megatron shrugged again, finally pulling a single key from the vessel and bringing him to his face to examine it even as Strika, who had been busy greeting a fellow femme of her acquaintances, pinged him back with an answer.

:: _Thank you, my Lord. Are you sure I can’t just shoot him? It’d be so much faster…_ ::

:: _As tempting as it it, the Lord Governor still needs to keep his head on his shoulders. At least for now,_ :: he added after a beat of silence he used to observe the key he had picked up. Small and silvery in appearance, it was almost dwarfed by the size of his fingers alone. The overall design looked vaguely like feathered wings, with a red gem encrusted in. What could such a delicate thing open exactly? :: _Unless you want me too appoint you as the new Governor of Lucifer in his stead?_ :: he teased, and the glare General Strika threw his way almost made him laugh outloud.

:: _Don’t you dare,_ :: she warned him as she too removed a key from the vessel -- bigger than his, and as black as coal. Blitzwing, always imprevisible, was busy ‘arguing’ with a guard who wouldn’t let him take three since, as Blitzwing argued, he was actually ‘three mechs in one’. Amusing. :: _And what would I do with Lucifer exactly? I’m a warrior, not an administrator or, or, worse, a politician!_ :: She didn’t physically shudder, but her tone clearly conveyed her feelings.

:: _You did accept to take Chaar under your leadership,_ :: the Warlord pointed out casually as he subspaced the key he had chosen for now and nodded at a few high ranked members of Straxus’ entourage in greeting, even exchanging a few words with two of them as they progressed inside the palace’s ballroom. Many mechs had trouble multitasking, but it had never been his case -- though it did force him to reroot some of his processors’ power to increase their speed.

:: _Mostly because Chaar is a burned husk and we mainly use it as a training ground and nothing else,_ :: she snapped back. :: _You see me organizing civilian life and resources managing? Megatron, in case you forgot, I killed a Caesium-Cactus despite trying to give it the best care I could. Thrice._ :: Unsaid was the fact that the metallic, spines-rigged plant was notoriously hard to kill.

Megatron allowed amusement to filter through his EM field, directing it at Strika. :: _And here I thought it was Lugnut distracting you which allowed that poor plant to die an early death._ ::

:: _Megatron…_ ::

:: _Oh, light up, will you? I don’t intend to seriously nominate you when I get rid of Straxus; I need you too much on the frontline to give you a role of administrator. But if anything, I would have one less energon-dagger pointed at my back with you in charge. What would you want me to do, trade Straxus for Starscream?_ ::

:: _The Allspark saves us!_ :: she commented dryly, and this time Megatron chuckled in good humor, though an onlooker could have mistaken it for a laugh over some of the jokes exchanged around him, and his sudden hilarity prompted more awkward laughter.

No, he couldn’t name Strika as replacement for Straxus. Though how he wished to! She was certainly a better administrator than what she gave herself credit for -- the unfortunate case of that hard-to-kill plant dying from neglect asides, and that was hardly proof she was bad a caring for a planet. Only for plants and, eventually, Sparklings. Of course, he might have to, even temporarily, for Megatron couldn’t say he had any good potential replacement for Straxus under hand at the moment…

“-- hope you’ll be enjoying the evening, Lord Megatron!”

The grey mech gave a thin, cold smile to the mech who had just spoken -- Leonus? Leonis? Ah, no; Legonis; one of Straxus’ staff members, who was cited on report as being quite lazy and more interested in leisure and pleasures than in keeping his fighting skills honed. How and why Straxus had chosen to trust him with a position of power, Megatron couldn’t fathom, nor did he understand why Straxus hadn’t already offed him. Still, he gave a brief nod of acknowledgement.

“I’m sure I will. Which remind me, I don’t think I’ve caught what’s the theme of the evening will be? The High Lord Governor’s invitation was quite vague,” he inquired politely, with barely a hint of curiosity. Though he had to admit, he was. He had never come to one of the Lord Governor’s infamous parties, but he had heard of them, and in details -- spies networks tended to be quite precises.

Some of those parties were actually one of the many reasons General Strika had developed quite the aversion for Lucifer’s Governor. Senseless killing of Autobot slaves and enslaved organic species was one thing, but purposely knock about and kill your own soldiers for ‘incompetence’ or because you were ‘bored’ and endangering some of the (much needed) commercial venues they had with Neutral parties by having ‘accidents’ happen to their ambassadors was a kind of foolish behavior she wasn’t willing to overlook. And truthfully, neither did Megatron, but the matter had been addressed already, and improvement have been made (as in, ambassadors didn’t have accidents anymore, and the overall death toll had decreased), so it was a moot point -- for now.

A grin spread over Legonis’ face as he started to rub his hands together. Megatron raised an optic ridge at the behaviour. By the Allspark, the lazy mech was almost drooling! “Oh, Lord Straxus had quite the fun idea, you’ll see! As it is, he should be announcing the start in a few…”

The loud ringing of a gong cut him short, as heads turned toward the noise. Without surprise, Megatron noted it was Straxus who was calling the attention to himself. Next to him, Legonis chuckled. “Well, guess it’s time to get properly started. Primus, I hope I get a good-looking one!”

Megatron gave him a blank look before concentrating again on Straxus who, all optics on him, was starting to speak loudly, looking as proud as a Cyber-peacock.

“Ladies and gentlemechs, thank you for having answered my invitation for tonight. As you know, I try to, ah, spice up my parties by throwing one-of-a-kind events. And I trust tonight’s entertainment will please many of you…”

*-*-*-*-*

It was time.

Optimus briefly shuttered his optics as the gong’s ring faded in the corridors. Straxus’ booming voice could be heard in a muffled way through the heavy doors of the ballroom, probably giving his usual welcome speech and explaining the ‘rules’ of the evening to his guests.

Next to him, someone sobbed softly through his own gag, and although Optimus tried to look around to comfort him, even with only a gaze, he was unable to locate him. He wondered who it was; probably a newcomer, someone who wasn’t yet used to the High Lord Governor’s brand of cruelty… and his most unusual ways to entertain himself and those he invited over. Around him, many slaves were shuffling uneasily, and he couldn’t blame them; Optimus himself did too from times to times, unable to fully get used to the soft contact of colored, almost translucent gauze held in place by strips of metal and leather against his bare interface components. ‘Chastity belts’, the overseer who had briefed them about their role tonight had let them know, sneering.

Nobody had screamed -- hard to, when all of you were gagged so you wouldn’t ‘ _importune the Lord Governor’s guests with inane pleading or disrespectful cries_ ’ -- but many had cried at the realization, and many were still whimpering and weeping silently about what would happen in a matter of cycles.

Primus, but Optimus missed his panel!

Of course, ever since he had been dragged in chains to Lucifer, he had learned to live without it most of the time. Even when slaves complied with their ‘masters’ and tried to retract their interface panels to save themselves the pain and the indignity, Decepticons tended to be too impatient, and panels tended to regularly been tore free from their hinges, exposing usually hidden components for all optics to see.

Of course, the medics repaired them just as regularly… when they had the material to spare. Which, sadly, wasn’t often enough. Sometimes mechs could wait for an orn, or two, or three, before they could get a replacement, ‘modesty’ being very low in the list of priority repairs the slave medics faced every solar cycle. Nobody could blame them for that, of course -- Optimus certainly didn’t. Little by little, everyone in the palace learned to do without, and many mechs had taken to fashion loincloths with rags and strips of fabric to cover themselves, giving themselves an illusion of safety. The illusion was often broken in less than a solar cycle, for no matter what hide what was between your legs, it never made the Decepticons less eager to get at it.

Optimus had since long lost the count of the number of time he had limped to the Medbay, staggering in Ratchet’s arms in tears or near to, energon and transfluid and nowhere near enough lubricant dripping between his legs, pain and misery radiating from his frame.

And later tonight or in the morning, he’d have to add one to his tally of painful visit, he thought dejectedly.

Straxus’ latest party wasn’t the most cruel he had thrown, but what didn’t kill his slaves would certainly scar their Sparks all the same. It took a certain form of strength to endure and recover from a rape -- and even more from a gang-rape. A certain form of strength Optimus was unsure was owned by a good part of the current crop of servants who would serve the first round of drinks and goodies.

Many clung to the hope they wouldn’t be forcefully taken tonight, and that was probably the worse Straxus could have done to them, Optimus thought with a pained Spark.

The little ‘game’ of tonight was simple; everywhere picked a key, a single one, from a bowl filled to the brim with many models and shapes. Each key was supposed to correspond to a specific padlock -- padlocks which were used to close the ‘chastity belts’ of the slaves acting as waiters and mingling among the crowd, carrying the trays of goodies for the guests’ pleasure. It was up to every guest to try out their key on a maximum of padlocks, until they found the matching one -- and from there, they were free to use the slave ‘liberated’ from his belt as they saw fit. And there was truly only one way drunk Decepticons excited by the sight of barely hidden valves they couldn’t pawn at otherwise would find ‘fit’...

But Straxus wasn’t a complete fool -- and he was very crafty. If all the slaves were being, ah, ‘taken’ at the same time, there’d be no one else to bring in the fuel. So, umberknost to the guests -- or at least to those who didn’t bother to pay attention -- the bowl was actually filled with more keys than there would be servants prowling in the ballroom. Many were just lures, flimsy and fragile things which would break upon trying to be used, while other were discreetly damaged so they wouldn’t fit in a lock. As such, it assured some slaves would be ‘spared’ from having to spread their legs tonight… for a time.

It was pure, dumb luck for each side -- but subtly stacked in the Decepticons’ favor.

Guests would be allowed to pick another, different key after the first half megacycle, or if the one they had picked wouldn’t work on twenty padlocks in a row. Statistically speaking, their chances to get at least one slave to frag during the night were quite goods, unless they really were unlucky -- which could happen. And knowing some of Governor Straxus’ usual guests, Optimus knew many of them wouldn’t be satisfied with only one valve to frag.

Slaves, however, would be forced to stay in the room all night, or at least until their shift ended and the second row of belt-cladded servants took their place. It would only take to get close to the wrong mech, at the time he held the right key, and… Well, the rest was better let to imagination. The worse, though? Unless whoever ‘won’ them decided to make a stand and claim their companionship for the rest of the night or they were too damaged by the first row of fragging, then the slaves were under strict orders to report to the nearest overseers to be fitted with a new belt, then go back to serve drinks… until another mech ‘won’ them again, and again... 

Optimus prefered not to calculate the odds. A few mechs might escape the night completely unscattered, but at least two-thirds of Governor Straxus’ slaves wouldn’t be so lucky. The Prime had little hope for himself, though deep down, he wanted to believe everything would be fine.

His sole comfort was that at least, Straxus hadn’t requisitioned the medics to be part of this farce. Their services would be too needed in the night and in the morning to allow them to get molested like common house slaves. Ratchet would be safe; Bumblebee, however… 

His optics searched the crowd of amassed slaves, searching the bright plating of Bumblebee -- who he knew was definitely part of the ‘waiters’ for tonight -- but couldn’t locate him in the rows of brightly colored mechs and femmes. For once, everyone was repainted -- though the quality of the paint was debatable, though less so than the reason Straxus had seen to their ‘dolling up’.

The ballroom doors started to crack open. There was no more time to search for his little friend; he could only hope Bumblebee could endure and that he would be fine. Squaring his shoulders and mentally praying Primus to grant him strength, Optimus started to advance, the heavy tray of Engex flutes carefully balanced in his hands. Red optics flashed in interest and lecherous grins spread over various faces as the waiters started to spread across the crowd, and it wasn’t long before various slaves were yanked to the side so the first guests could try out their keys, often with sighs as their preys staggered away, their padlocks still firmly locked.

Optimus didn’t look at them. He didn’t look at anyone, period. Avoiding his gaze, never looking at anyone in the optics were survival mechanisms -- many Decepticons didn’t like to be looked at by an ‘inferior’, and Optimus had learned the lesson to Spark -- literally. Downcast, his demeanour shy and nervous as suiting for a slave, he kept his optics focused on the floor, watching his steps carefully as he wandered from one group of guests to the next, his trays becoming lighter and lighter as hands sometimes as large as his face grabbed a drink.

His Spark beat fast and his vents were menacing to shut off, making him overheat as many hands grabbed him by the waist, holding him still to try and open his belt. Even when they let go, their efforts rewarded by nothing, for they didn’t have the right key, Optimus didn’t calm down. His Spark just fluttered nervously as the last drink on the tray was grabbed, and he hastily retired toward the farthest end of the ballroom to go pick another -- staying idle and not looking busy was another way to bring trouble to yourself in those parties.

Optimus tried not to react when he heard the sound of a tray crashing to the ground and glass, porcelain and precious crystal shattering in shards as someone crooned loudly in victory.

He just took a deep vent and lifted a tray of energon puffs to carry over, carefully not glancing as the first few unfortunate ‘waiters’ were dragged toward the couches Governor Straxus had so ‘generously’ provided for his guests. He carefully headed away from the heavy-looking mech who hadn’t had the relative patience to do so and was now busy taking the mech he had ‘won’ right there on the floor, amidst the broken remains of a tray of goodies.

Optimus tried to tune off the sound of loud, crass laugher and the heavy pants and sloshing noises that were tell-tale of interfacing while carefully keeping his tray balanced, even when more impatient hands groped him, releasing him just as roughly in disappointment. It was harder to tune off the commentaries on his appearance, and the way mechs pinched or fondled his aft while swearing to his audio receptors they’d ‘show him what a good time was the moment they could open him up’.

He didn’t shake -- at least his frame didn’t; his hands, however… But still he proceeded as if nothing was wrong, simply taking a few steps asides to let limping slaves, interface components bare and abused, slowly make their way toward the relative safety of the buffet table and the presence of the overseers, who alone would decide if they would head to the medics for repair or be forced to endure another row of forced interfacing. From the corner of his optics, Optimus could make out dented plating, silver or pink stained armor, wrists held out protectively against chests, articulations obviously crushed or fingers bend at odd angles. New waiters were brought in to take their place, allowing no pause in the circle of abuse, rape and despair.

Decepticons were rarely careful about the way they handled their slaves, and now the first megacycle of the party was almost over -- at least if the giant clock the Lord Governor had installed above the doors was right -- most of the guests who had engaged in High Grade exclusively were clearly intoxicated and had even less reasons to be careful.

At this point, Optimus’ only consolation was that, with the gags and the loud noises of the party -- because Primus, Governor Straxus couldn’t have thrown a party without airing _music_ , could he? -- he couldn’t make out the muffled cries of distress of his fellow slaves, couldn’t recognize a friendly voice begging for help he couldn’t give. But his Spark felt heavy and distressed, drowning in his powerlessness.

So to avoid thinking, he worked his way through as many trays as possible, handling the constant groping as well as he could without losing his balance. Which was sometimes harder than he’d have wished, because he had the feeling -- not, scratch that, he knew -- someone was dogging him, a Decepticon of tan plating who seemed to pass from angry to politely cold to just plain weird every few moments. Each time he had a new key -- or at least Optimus guessed it was a new key -- he was there, pawing and cursing when it failed once more before disappearing in the crowd.

By the time the second megacycle was almost over, he couldn’t help but secretly marvel at the fact someone had yet to open his belt. That… was unexpected. By this point, he had imagined himself to be back in Ratchet’s care, aching inside from the rough handling he was sure to receive. But no; nothing of the sort. If his aft kept getting fondled by more or less overcharged guests, if he had barely avoided slaps from disgruntled would-be ‘lovers’ frustrated to not be able to get him, he remained, up to this point, free from forced interfacing.

And perhaps he shouldn’t have thought about it.

Because, as he quietly waited for the last group he was serving to pick up the goodies he was holding, a large black hand lazily grabbed him by the hip, giving him a tug. The Prime didn’t bother to look up; what was one hand more at this point? A second hand came up, holding a silvery key and fumbling to find the padlock’s entry. Just as Optimus presented the last goodie to a behemoth of a femme he couldn’t remember ever seeing in the palace before, he heard it.

_Click._

The straps composing his chastity belt loosened, and his Spark contracted painfully, stopping from beating for a klik.

Oh, no… he thought desperately, and then only he looked up, half-turning toward… whoever would force himself on him tonight. Blue optics crossed with deep, red ones. And realization sunk in as painfully as his Spark.

_Primus…_

*-*-*-*-*

:: _Are you sure we can’t just leave and be done with this slag?_ ::

Megatron glanced over at Strika who, a flute of green-tinted Engex in hand, was letting it twirl around with small, discrete movements of her wrist. She was obviously bored out of her mind, and unhappy to boot, so no Decepticons was insane enough to try and chat her up. Well, asides of Blitzwing, who dropped by regularly for some inane chatting, but Blitzwing’s sanity was highly questionable to begin with.

Perhaps Megatron shouldn’t have allowed Blackarachnia to use him as her first guinea-pig’o-tron. Perhaps…

:: _Quite certain. I’ve already send my message across quite loudly to our dear Governor, I don’t want him to suspect how much closer I am to bust his aft than he already suspect. Besides, don’t tell me you don’t enjoy the goodies?_ ::

He picked one on a passing tray as he sent the message, stocking it in subspace for latter. He wondered if he could get the cook who made them transferred to the Nemesis. Despite being a former miner, a former Gladiator, a warrior at Spark and having little use for luxuries, as he flatly refused to live more comfortably than his troops until they retook Cybertron, he couldn’t help but admit a certain fondness for goodies in any way or shape. After megavorns of living on sludge in the mines and at the bottom castes of the so called ‘Golden Age’ of Cybertron, he could still be amazed with the tastes and shapes fuel could take when properly prepared. Acid, sweet, salted, bitter, he didn’t care; he just enjoyed them as they came.

Strika, however, was of another mindset.

:: _Unlike you, I don’t care for sweets, the cocktails aren’t to my taste, the Visco is average, the High Grade is too potent for me to safely consume AND continue to assure your security at the same time, AND I don’t care for Straxus’ form of entertainment._ :: Her optics narrowed as she looked around the room, displeased. :: _If I want to fill a valve’s tonight, I got Lugnut waiting for me on the ship._ ::

:: _I would have thought you’d at least try, if only for appearance’s sake. You never was one to shy from interfacing, no matter the partner, and unless I’m mistaken Lugnut isn’t the jealous sort,_ :: Megatron remarked, picking yet another goodie and biting on it with a hum of pleasure. Very good.

Strika audibly snorted. :: _True, he’s not, and he probably wouldn’t mind watching if I brought someone to my berth. But did you truly look at Straxus’ offerings? I could break some of those mechs in two just using my pinky digit! They’d hardly do good facing material for someone like me… or for most of the people in the room._ :: Her optics narrowed again in displeasure. 

Ah, yes, that was a problem, Megatron acknowledged. The size range among the waiters was clearly inferior to Decepticons, and for some mechs, interfacing would obviously ends up in damages. Now, true Decepticons weren’t queasy about that, but unless they were stupid or particularly sadistic, most of his troops didn’t go out of their way to purposely damage their slaves in such a way. Of course, the present crowd was quite drunk by now, and Straxus wasn’t known to surround himself with the most sensitive or intelligent individuals.

Obviously, Strika wasn’t the only one aware of the issue, because there were lone figures in some corners who, like her, a cube or flute in hand, were watching the party unfolding with expressions of distaste or, more rarely, anger. Megatron could make out Cyclonus’ distinctive helm-shape and color in the background, arms crossed and scowling fiercely.

:: _Not to mention,_ :: Strika pursued, :: _that I don’t enjoy taking my fill in front of everyone._ ::

Megatron nodded absent-mindedly. That too, he understood. He wasn’t much of an exhibitionist himself, and he had better taste than to crowd around the -- now very messy -- couches were some of the guests had dragged their ‘lovers’, giggling stupidly or making crass comments about berth prowess and spike-size. Plus, the Autobot slaves EM fields, charged with terror and distress, were widely flaring around the place and with his fuel tank almost full, it was making him queasy. The Warlord prefered to side with the more sensitive members of his brethren, who threw their catches over their shoulders and walked to the relative privacy of the makeshift alcoves, not feeling like giving a spectacle but intent on enjoying themselves.

:: _Straxus also mentioned there were private rooms if one wished to,_ :: he pointed out casually, but he knew it wouldn’t change Strika’s advice on the matter. Which he appreciated.

:: _I’ll pass,_ :: she pinged dryly. :: _Come on, Megatron, how much longer? It isn’t like you’re really in the spirit of the party either._ ::

Which… was kind of true. Megatron unsubspaced the small silvery key he had picked at the start of the evening, looking at it pensively. He had used it every now and then, but he hadn’t tried to pick another one, and his attempts to go after the waiters had been half-hearted at best. Some of them had been cute, very cute even, especially for civilian frames, and he wouldn’t have minded an easy interface session -- Primus knew since how long he hadn’t had someone to warm his berth for him -- but at the same time…

Strika was right, he wasn’t in the spirit of the party, though he had dutifully tried to participate, especially whenever he had been sure Governor Straxus had been looking his way. See, he was trying, was he not?

:: _Not much longer,_ :: he finally decided. :: _Another cycle, and we’ll be off to the Nemesis. I think it’s starting to calm down anyway, and by now several guests will have already left. It’ll be as good a moment as any._ ::

Strika pinged back in acknowledgement, and swooped down to pick one of the last goodies on the tray of the waiter who had walked over to them during their private discussion. Energon puffs, by the look of it -- and even if Strika professed to not care for goodies, she still was fond enough of them to grab several in a row, forcing the waiter to stay in place. Pretty thing, Megatron thought appreciatively as he walked over to them, intent on saving at least one Energon puff for himself. Catchy red and blue, with silvery white thighs, easy to look at and easily picked out in the crowd of the darker colors favored by the Decepticons, but not outlandish either, easily blending in among some of the sharper colors bore by the rest of the slaves. And he was definitely taller than a good deal of the waiters.

More by habit than anything else, he grabbed him by the hip -- and it was so easy, the nameless mech’s body seemed to be made to be grabbed -- and started to fumble around with the key, searching for the padlock, giving it a slight tug before he tried to turn the key in the lock.

He had expected resistance, as usual.

He wasn’t prepared for the lock to give away and the padlock to open with a ‘click’.

The slave froze. Megatron froze. Strika raised an optic ridge, an half-munched puff on the way to her lips. Slowly, the smaller mech turned, Megatron’s grip on his hip slacking. Blue optics looked up to meet his. Megatron just gazed down at that pretty face, swollen lips parted wide around a ball gag. The optics held a hint of fear, but not that much. The mech’s EM field, though… It reeked of abject misery, before it fluctuated briefly, now radiating resigned, sad acceptance.

The slave bowed slightly, optics downcast anew, as if awaiting.

Well… that was unexpected.

Megatron looked at Strika, blind and deaf to Blitzwing’s sudden apparition as his Random side bemoaned the loss of such a nice piece of aft for himself.

:: _Strika?_ :: he asked carefully, mind racing and wondering what to do. He hadn’t actually thought he’d managed to get a slave to himself! That wasn’t in the plan!

:: _Don’t ask me and deal with it,_ :: the big femme replied crossly, looking up and down at her Lord’s catch. :: _He should be able to handle you, provided you don’t just bend him over and ram up inside him._ ::

Well, that was helpful. Megatron tilted his head to the side, frowning. The mech WAS cute… and he had nothing better to do tonight. :: _Strika? I won’t be coming back to the Nemesis tonight,_ :: he decided, taking the smaller mech’s wrist and tugging at it to make the mech follow as he turned away.

:: _You’re going to spend the night HERE?!_ :: She wasn’t quite screaming, but it was near.

:: _I don’t expect Straxus to let me bring one of his slaves back to my ship, and if I have an opportunity to frag, you can bet I’ll take my sweet time,_ :: he replied tartly. :: _What, you think he’ll offline me in my sleep?_ :: he mocked.

:: _Him, I doubt very much; Straxus? I can see him try,_ :: the General of Destruction replied flatly. :: _You won’t spend the whole night here unprotected._ ::

:: _Then you’re welcome to spend the night guarding my door, and call Lugnut and Blitzwing in if you need reinforcements,_ :: Megatron stated simply as he made his way to Straxus, the slave obediently following after him, his empty tray lodged under his arm. “Ah, Lord Straxus; I think you told me there’d be private rooms…?” he inquired politely.

The Governor gave Megatron and the slave a once-over, clearly surprised, before he smoothly bowed. “But of course, Lord Megatron. If you please…”

A few cycles later, Megatron was closing his door to Strika’s face, locking it behind him with relief. The music barely filtered inside, for which he was grateful -- it had started to get on his nerves, though perhaps not as much as Strika’s chides. Thankfully, Lugnut was still on his way and hadn’t been there to see the whole debacle, though Megatron knew he was going to hear from him in the morning as well. What he wouldn’t do for an easy frag… Even if he was starting to wonder if it wasn’t more trouble than it was worth, and if his choice truly was a good one.

Turning, he blinked as he realized the slave hadn’t waited. The lithe red and blue mech had immediately walked over to the berth and was now lying on it, silent and still, legs slightly spread and back half-propped on a pile of pillows and cushions.

It was nice to look at… and at the same time, it made Megatron frown deeply.

The light of the ballroom, the crowd, the conversations, the music, all of that had left little time to pay attention to the details. But now he was in a calmer setting, with less bright lights and the opportunity to give a closer inspection, it clearly felt there was something off about the ‘perfection’ of the treat he had brought to enjoy.

It barely took him three long steps to reach the berth, on which he immediately knelt. The Autobot’s thighs parted further without a word, and Megatron easily settled between them. He didn’t reach for a leg or for the interface panel, though. Instead, he grabbed an arm and started to inspect it from closer.

Hmph. Just as he thought.

Megatron gazed closely at the Autobot’s paintjob with a critical optic. At first glance, he may have looked pretty and dolled up, but once you were near it was easy to notice the chipped paint that had been hastily corrected with an unfinished layer, and the cheap polish spread over to give an uniform but sorely insufficient coat. How typically Straxus, to try and present his fellow Decepticons with Fool’s gold, he mused with distaste as he leaned back, a scowl on his face.

Still lying quietly on the berth, dulled blue optics still looking at the wall, the Autobot didn’t react outwardly. Perhaps a minute twitch, but it could have very well been Megatron’s imagination. He guarded his EM field close to him, but Megatron could still feel the same resigned acceptance from before, tinted with deep nervousness. Megatron tilted his head to the side, pondering and amending himself. Straxus might have tried to sold his servants and slaves as worth more than they were, but the Autobot was still nice to look at. If only Lucifer’s Governor could be bothered to actually maintain his staff in good working conditions…

Ah, well. Why did he care anyway? It wasn’t as if he had come to the colony to discuss Straxus’ cheapness when it came to maintain pleasure slave -- and he hadn’t come to the party to waste his time stupidly worrying about the fate of a few Autobots!

“Let’s get down to business, shall we?” he grunted as he settled back between the Autobot’s legs. The white thighs easily parted wider to accommodate him as he brought out the silver key that would allow him to open the servant’s chastity belt. From his position, with the Autobot spread and vulnerable beneath him, it was easy to make out the plump folds of his valve and guess the shape of the main external node through the semi-translucent, pale yellow fabric wrapped over the interface array, in between two straps of flexible but incredibly solid metal.

Such an interesting design Straxus had used for those ‘chastity belts’ of his, the Warlord mused as he resisted the urge to pinch at what fabric he could manage to grab. It looked so thin, so delicate he had no doubt he could tear it up accidentally just by touching it. By contrast, he knew enough about the metal of the belt -- Titan Steel, specially treated to make it bendy instead of extra stiff -- to know he could try and try to pull and tear it apart without ever managing. The only thing he’d win would be bruised hands. And of course, the straps running between the legs were spread enough to let a mech enjoy the view, but too close together to let a mech use more than a finger to caress the treasure they were framing, forbidding any possibility to just spike the tentative little valve they did nothing to hide.

Clever. Really clever -- much more so than he would have given Straxus credit for. But when lust hazed their processor, mechs could grow quite creative, Megatron mused as his fingers grabbed the padlock closing the belt. Ever since he had pulled the key back, the damn thing had locked again -- probably a security measure of sort. The Autobot’s vents hitched, and cautious blue optics finally focused on him, albeit briefly, before he quickly looked away again.

Now, that was annoying, Megatron decided. Letting go of the padlock, he grabbed the Autobot’s chin in his hand. “Look at me,” he ordered, and was pleasantly surprised when the Autobot actually obeyed. Of course, his gaze kept darting away every few kliks, but at least he did look at Megatron in the optics for the most part. Curious… Unless…? “Hmm. Straxus trained you to always look down or away from your betters, didn’t he?” he asked aloud, mentally kicking himself for expecting an answer. With no comms and gagged as he was, the Autobot wouldn’t reply…

But the barest of nod came to confirm his question, surprising the Warlord, who released the red and blue mech’s chin with a sigh. “Such a waste,” he mumbled. Of what, he didn’t precise, but he felt and saw the Autobot stiffen before he looked at him in wonder. Then the slave’s blue optics looked down at the silver keep still held between massive fingers and he quickly looked away again, becoming laxer against the pillows.

“Let’s get you rid of that belt,” the warlord murmured not unkindly. As enticing as it was for the optics, it couldn’t have been very comfortable to wear. Ah, but comfort hadn’t been the point when Straxus had designed -- or had someone design those belts for him, hadn’t he? It was just a way to provide a ‘game’ for his guests, as well as making sure they wouldn’t be all pawning at the slaves and cutting out the flow of trays, after all.

The key easily found its mark and the padlock gave away again. Megatron choose to not comment about the minute tension in the Autobot’s frame, though he leaned much closer to feel the ripple of uneasiness in the smaller mech’s EM field. So tightly controlled, trying to give nothing away, and almost managing… It was impressing, for an Autobot that’s it. Megatron knew many Decepticons would could never have managed such a deep level of control on their emotions. And Starscream wondered how Megatron knew he was up to nothing good… Eh.

Carefully, he grabbed some of the strips between two fingers, letting them slowly slide down nice white thighs. Others he unclasped from darker metal clips, fastening the process and making the yellow gauze-like material ruffle as it wasn’t taut anymore against a bare valve. The Autobot’s vents hitched once more, but he made no noise of protest, didn’t attempt to plead for Megatron’s mercy. Which, honestly, the Warlord didn’t know what to feel about. Perhaps he was too used to simpering?

The belt finally completely off, he tried to get a hold of the yellow fabric, only to wince as it tore between his fingers -- just like he had feared it would. Hmph; he hoped for Straxus’ sake those things were cheap, for he had no doubt he wasn’t the first one to whom it had happened tonight.

To his surprise, his ‘undressing’ finally prompted the slave to move, and a blue hand shot up to cover his groin, clutching the tore yellow gauze desperately. Pure reflex, Megatron speculated, still deeply integrated in the systems despite, ah, ‘rigorous training’. Megatron raised an optic ridge; blue cheeks flushed red, and the abject misery he had felt sooner in the ballroom resurfaced, along with more fear than the Warlord had felt before. The Autobot was clearly ready to flinch, body tense and ready to roll with a punch, obviously expecting to get hit for his ‘bold’ defense of his interface array.

That made Megatron smirk briefly. Good to know there was still some spirit in that frame, for he disliked having too passive lovers. Well, lovers wasn’t quite the right term here, but it would have to do, and hopefully the experience would be worthwhile. The cheap paintjob and waxing asides, the Autobot was very easy on the optics, especially with that slight blush to his cheeks… and he would probably feel just as easy around his spike.

Speaking of… With barely a thought, Megatron send the command to open his own panel, revealing his own bare valve and his spike sheath. The tip was already poking out, wanting release he was only too happy to provide. Lazily, not breaking optic contact with the Autobot despite the fact the smaller mech kept trying to avoid his gaze, he started to pump it, letting it expand and stiffen as he run his thumb all over it. Part of him was tempted to have the Autobot do it for him, but there would be time to see what those hands were good for later on. Right now, the Warlord was in the mood for something different, smirking knowingly as blue optics finally, almost reluctantly focused on his stiffening spike.

“Does it look to your taste, Autobot?” he asked benignly, not hiding his amusement. Blue optics shied away again immediately. “Hmm, skittish, aren’t you? But that’s alright; we’ll have plenty of time to get to know each other,” he purred. He had taken the room for a reason, after all.

The Autobot made a small sound behind his gag and his optics shuttered briefly. Hum. Not very in the mood, was he? Well, Megatron was certain he could change it -- he wasn’t a bad lover, quite the contrary. He just needed the Autobot to relax a little, possibly by showing him he didn’t intend to causing him harm, and then the two of them should be able to greatly enjoy the experience. Poor little thing probably didn’t often get the chance to truly go off, if he had to guess by the crass company Straxus kept and seemed to enjoy.

Of course, it’d probably not hurt to insist on foreplay and, if the need arose, to search his subspace pockets for the tube of artificial lubricant he kept around for solo plays -- just because he was busy didn’t meant he couldn’t enjoy some private time in comfortable conditions once the door to his private quarters was closed, after all.

Speaking of comfortable, it would probably best if he checked right away the Autobot’s size to see what would work better from here. It was time to inspect the goods from closer. Stopping his lazy pumping, he let his now hard spike bobble in the air as he gently but firmly grabbed the blue hand hiding away the ultimate prize of this night and moved it asides, letting it rest next to the suddenly slack body. Good; at least the smaller mech didn’t intend to fight him all the way, it would simplify matters, and such good behavior deserved to be rewarded; he wouldn’t even need to find an excuse to indulge the slave.

Megatron gave the Autobot a toothy grin as he slide down on his elbows and lowered himself so he could face the smaller mech’s valve. “Now, what does it… look…?” he trailed off, cutting himself from (for him) gentle chiding. His optics narrowed dangerously as he changed position, his hands shooting forward to poke at the Autobot’s valve, or rather at the mesh lips.

The Autobot whimpered, his body twisting. Megatron’s right hand shot out and grabbed him by the thigh, holding it still as his free hand brushed against damaged mesh. It was… not as big as mess as it could have been, but there had definitely been damages there -- some of which weren’t finished healing from the looks of it. With his index, Megatron lightly traced a straight line of scar tissue.

The original wound must have been quite painful, for unless Megatron was mistaken, the mesh had been properly torn open. By what and how, Megatron prefered not to ponder, but he could see the result. The scar left over was long but thin, as if someone had patiently and meticulously sew back the ragged edges of the wound together to minimize the size and risk of scarring. It wasn’t quite the normal way to treat such damages, but if one didn’t have access to better treatment, it probably was the best they could come up with. From the dark blue color of the scar, standing out against the paler, medium blue of the rest of the mesh, Megatron guessed the wound wasn’t that old. The stitches might have disappeared, but it wasn’t fully healed yet and still sensitive to the touch, if he had to judge by the grimaces the Autobot made despite his gag and his soft whimpers of uneasiness and, yes, pain.

And it wasn’t even the first time the Autobot suffered such damages, Megatron thought racingly as his fingers searched around, pulled delicately on mesh lips to examine it under different angles. There were other marks in the mesh, other left-over scars, some dark blue and looking almost raws, other pale blue and flat, long since healed but which repair nanites hadn’t been able to erase completely. On an impulse, he parted the folds, deaf to the plaintive noise the Autobot made, and peered closely at the first rim of calipers. The Warlord didn’t quite feel relief when it noticed it wasn’t horribly mutilated, though it was clear there had been damage here too; some parts of the rim were darker than others, probably due to pieces changes or to soldering.

He released the Autobot’s thigh and leaning back, sitting heavily on his heels while venting loudly, while the slave immediately curled into a protective ball, hiding away the evidence. Megatron slowly counted to ten, his frame rattling.

Primus, what was Straxus thinking he was doing with his slaves?

If you used an Autobot and decided to keep him for further use, then decency -- and common sense, but Megatron wasn’t certain Straxus had any left at this point -- pointed out you should see to his proper repairs. That was the least one could do with his property, and something Megatron had enforced time and time again! When he saw the results, then it was clear he hadn’t been clamoring loudly enough.

And if you weren’t able to get the best repairs in a timely way, then you sat down on your libido and you waited for your slave to naturally heal before trying to use him again! And had Lucifer’s Governor never heard of mods, such as extra stretchable calipers and additional rings?! They weren’t that hard or that costly to come up with, for Allspark’s sake!

Dejectedly, he looked down at the miserable ball of red and blue before him before sighing. Well. Here came the idea of enjoying a tight valve, unless the damage inside wasn’t as bad as the outside. Of course… there always were alternatives to full penetration.

His gaze turned speculative as he nudged the little ball of Autobot apart, forcing him to unroll and lay flat on his back, catching his chin in his hand to force him to look at him once more. His knee pressed between those silvery white thighs -- and were they shaking? Yes they were! Megatron just snorted softly before he raised an optic ridge. There was fear here… but the way those blue optics had paled and were slowly getting unfocused didn’t sound right. If he didn’t know better, the Warlord would have suspected the shaking came from frame exhaustion…

Oh. Right. Straxus’ slave, he reminded himself. Megatron looked him up and down. “When was the last time you refueled?” he asked dryly. Blue optics blinked in surprise several times in a row, the smaller mech clearly taken aback by the question -- not that it surprised Megatron. He looked at the Autobot’s hands, watching, expecting him to show his fingers or something, but… he didn’t. Megatron sighed. “I see.”

Briskly, he pulled the smaller mech in a sitting position. The slave made a choked noise behind his gag as Megatron made him bend his head forward and took a good look at the straps holding the gag in place. Curious; it was just plain leather -- or just flexible metal covered in a thin leather layer to smooth the hard edges. He would have expected the Autobot to have torn it off himself… except he was trained, the Warlord reminded himself. Removing the gag himself was certainly a reason for punishment, and obviously the mech wasn’t stupid enough to attract a beating if he could help it.

“Hold still,” he grunted, hand fumbling to release the straps as the Autobot tried to shake his head free. He stilled immediately, and soon enough Megatron hummed triumphally as the knot came apart, straps loosening and allowing the red and blue mech to cough out the ball he had been biting in. And coughing he did, working out swollen lips with a small groan of pain and passing his glossa over them, as if searching for splits and damages.

Hmm, even without the swelling, the Autobot had nice lips, Megatron mused as he released his helm and leaned back in satisfaction as the Autobot moved to massage his mouth and cheeks, rubbing little circles over his whole faceplates. Evidently, the cabling and articulations of the jaw were sore as well, which left Megatron to wonder how long exactly he had been wearing that thing.

“Better?” he asked mildly, and was rewarded by an aborted jump as the slave looked up at him, hands strategically placed in his laps to hide his interface array from peeking optics while maintaining a submissive demeanour. That almost made the Warlord purr; good submissive behaviour, combined with the mech’s looks and the lingering spirit he still kept deep down… Too bad his valve was so injured, or Megatron would have ravished him already. Silence stretched for a moment, before he realized he needed to have something. “You’re authorized to talk, you know.”

“Yes… Master,” came the soft, oh so soft voice. Barely a whisper, really, and if his audios hadn’t been so finely tuned, Megatron might not have understood the words. A shudder run down his back strut, but he couldn’t for the love of him understand why.

So he raised an optic ridge, and just looked at the slave, humming to himself. Now, where to start?

*-*-*-*-*

Of all the ways Optimus had imagined the night to be going when he had looked up to meet the optics of the Decepticon who had unlocked his belt, it certainly wasn’t that. The moment he had painfully recognized Megatron, Supreme Lord of the Decepticons, Emperor of Destruction, he had expected… well, pain. Agony. Being roughly, savagely taken and used until his broken body was discarded, the Warlord sated, and Optimus would have been lucky to still be alive.

That was how things were supposed to work with Megatron, right?

But nothing had gone according to plan -- if thinking he was going to offline tonight counted as a plan.

For one, the Prime turned slave had fully expected his humiliation to be public. Almost all the guests had taken to fornicate in the open, on the couches provided by the Governor and the floor. But no; Megatron had taken to lead him away, and not just to an alcove, no, but to an actual room. Which, to be honest, both pacified and terrified Optimus in equal measure.

Pacified, because at least if he was going to offline, it’d be in relative privacy, and the spectacle of his death would be avoided to the few Sparks he could call friends in his Pit, Bumblebee chief among them. Terrified, because if the Warlord took a room, then it meant he wasn’t going to be quick about whatever he had planned to do, and Optimus knew just how long Decepticons could prolongate one’s agony for megacycles.

Still, he had followed meekly, optics downcast -- what else could he have done anyway? Thrash around, make a scene, drag his feet to the ground, attack the giant of a mech barehanded? Even when he had been new to the whole slavery thing, he wouldn’t have been so stupid. And right now, as he had been fighting to stay upright and mask his shakes as his energy reserves reached a low 29%, he just didn’t have the strength left anyway. Ultra Magnus had been right, so long ago; being a hero wasn’t in his programming.

So Optimus did what he did best; he followed, himself followed in tune by the large femme he had been serving goodies before, and while Megatron locked the door to her face, he went down to lie on the berth in a submissive posture, silently offering himself and praying the Warlord would be fast, despite proofs of the contrary.

He had expected to be taken here and now, fast and rough, like it usually went with all the Decepticons he had been unfortunate to ‘meet intimately’ until then but… That didn’t happen.

Instead, he was observed from up close, examinated under every angles, the Warlord’s EM field buzzing with discontentment. Obviously, now he could truly get a good look at Optimus, he was dissatisfied with his ‘catch’, and the realization almost made the Prime flinch in defeat. Of course. He wasn’t good enough to finish the Academy, he wasn’t good enough to fight off attackers on his shift, he wasn’t good enough to avoid capture for himself and his team, he wasn’t good enough to fight off Decepticons pawning at his frame and pinning him down, so why would he had been any good at getting fragged by Megatron himself?

He had half expected Megatron to just grunt and throw him out of the room, but instead, the mech had taken to try and remove the belt altogether -- and more than that, he had ordered Optimus to look at him! That was… most unusual. No Decepticon he had ever met had ever desired to feel his optics on them, would never have allowed him to. The rare few times he had done so, voluntarily at first when he had still been stupidly defiant, than by accident as he tried to get used to his fate, Optimus had ended with shattered optical lenses.

Part of him had expected Megatron to just hit him, but no. He didn’t. And that was most unsettling. He just resumed removing the belt after a brief commentary in a mild tone that didn’t show any disappointment. Perhaps… perhaps he didn’t think he’d find anyone worthier in the chattel of slaves Governor Straxus had proposed him? Yes, it had to be that; Optimus was simply the less unattractive prospect.

But still… he didn’t sound angry. In fact, contrary to what he’d have expected from the history books he had studied during his brief stint at the Academy, the Warlord sounded fairly mild, and should he say… reasonable.

In insight, it probably was the reason Optimus had this reflex -- which he had thought since long beaten out of him -- to cover his groin when his belt came apart and the yellow gauze tore up between clumsy digits. The lack of threat in his voice and demeanour had just… caused the Prime to forget one didn’t refuse a Decepticon anything. He knew it was a mistake before his hand even moved, and he had desperately tried to stop himself, because oh Primus Almighty it was disobedience, it was rebellion, and it wouldn’t bring him anything good at all, Megatron now had a bigger reason to be disappointed in him and he was going to punch him or worse he would beat him up and then drag him to Governor Straxus and complain on his lack of proper training and…

And Megatron did nothing of the sort.

Instead, he released his spike, seemingly unbothered by Optimus’ move. The Prime couldn’t help but stare as Megatron pumped his spike to full hardness. Since he had come to Lucifer, he had seen more spike designs and interface mods than he had ever cared about or wished to see. But despite his fears and his dread-tainted anticipation, Megatron’s spike was actually fairly normal.

Black and thick, bulbous tip the same grey as his paintjob, lined with red biolights on the sides and around the basis, it was certainly large and wouldn’t easily fit in an average-sized Autobot… But Optimus couldn’t make out a knot-mod at the bottom. There was no ring of sharp-tipped spines surrounding the hilt or the bulbous tip, no piercings trailing down the shaft and menacing to tear him up from the inside, no knob that would press uncomfortably into him. There was no pointed tip, no double spikes, and from the look of it, it didn’t seem to have extra mods to expand the girth and/or the size to bigger proportions. It was… a spike. Just a spike. Not a carefully designed torture instrument. Not only that, but the Warlord had also bared his valve! No Decepticon the Prime had met had ever done that, ever. But here it was, and he could easily make out the thin grey lips and the red external node above them whenever Megatron’s pumping hand wasn’t obstructing his view.

A normal spike, a normal valve… that was why Optimus couldn’t stop staring. Because perhaps, just perhaps, he was going to be able to live through the night. His previous, ah, ‘experiences’ with the Decepticon way of ‘facing and their various spike designs had allowed him to make up his own ‘pain scale’, ranging from ‘Mildly Uncomfortable’ to ‘Agonizingly Painful’. From the looks of it, if he was ‘gentle’, and with the way his valve’s damages were healing already, then taking Megatron would range somewhere between ‘Highly Uncomfortable But Bearable’ to ‘Mildly Hurtful If He Presses In Wrong’. It was a relief of sort

At least until Megatron called to him, and he quickly looked away in shame and panic, scared he might have accidentally angered the Warlord, in which case he’d have to mentally replace him higher in the pain scale. So when Megatron firmly grabbed his hand -- but not so firmly he’d dent the plating, thank Primus -- and pulled it away from his valve, Optimus let himself go slack, hoping he wouldn’t displease the grey mech further. Megatron lowered his face… and his voice trailed off, hands shooting forward to touch the Prime’s valve.

Optimus’ body twisted despite himself on instinct. The next thing he knew, a large black hand was grabbing his thigh and holding it apart while inquisitive fingers poked at the scared mesh of his valve array. Blue cheeks burned with shame even as he forced himself to stay still while Megatron examinated how damaged the ‘goods’ he had picked were.

Optimus held little illusions about the state of his valve and, despite it lesser use, of his spike. Governor Straxus’ guards, his staff, his guests, the Governor himself,... none were kind, and some took great relish in inflicting as many damages as possible. He had seen mechs with whole arrays torn off before, and it was only pure dumb luck it hadn’t happened to him as well. But inside and outside damages he still had suffered aplenty, and without Ratchet’s expert care, he had no doubt the damages down there would have been much, much worse. Even if the repairs had been agony in themselves.

He couldn’t blame Ratchet or hate him for that; it wasn’t the medic’s fault if all the slaves had to be repaired were old tools, obsolete equipment, not enough raw material to craft all the necessary replacement pieces they needed, little recovery time from operation, barely any energon for transfusion if needed and little to no anesthetics to soften the surgery and emergency repairs.

Sewing back lines and torn mesh was not an ideal solution, it was painful and it took time to truly heal, but it was all Ratchet and the rest of the small medical staff had been able to do -- aside of cauterization, and that was even worse. At least with the sewing, most of the sensors underneath could be saved, and given enough time, the mesh could even recover sensibility. The same rule applied for realigning dislodged calipers, for fixing torn up valve tubing, for bandaging scratched or deeply etched in spikes. When they were extra lucky, the medics managed to mix gels and pastes to help numb the sensors or boost up the repairs nanites, but it was so rare an event and the stock was so limited they reserved it only for the direst of circumstances.

Optimus had learned to bear it as he could. Usually, he tended to bite on something to avoid screaming and looked at the ceiling without seeing it while Ratchet, bend between his legs with energon wire and a needle or a solder in hand and murmured reassurance and apologies as he worked.

The one scar Megatron kept poking at was the most recent -- a memory of the interfacing session he had had five solar cycle ago with a mech who had started to hump him before taking him. But since said mech had had a barbed spike… well, the delicate folds had taken damages, to say nothing of his insides. Thank to Ratchet’s quick intervention and a dose of numbing gel, he was better than he should have been. But it was still painful, and he really hoped the Warlord would just stop to touch it and focus on something else.

Primus, but it was so mortifying so have him suddenly spread the folds and peer closely at his valve rim! They didn’t look like much, Optimus knew -- even if most of his recent damages had been external, Ratchet still had had to realign his calipers, and even in one memorable instance, change part of the rings after they had been so ruined it would have been a waste to just do repair. Optimus had no way to look at himself down there, but he was fairly certain the difference between ancient and new parts was visible, and Megatron had probably noticed.

All the sudden, the Warlord’s hands were gone, and instinctively the Prime curled into a ball, his EM field fluctuating wildly with misery. He shouldn’t have let it astray, should have kept it tucked close and neutral, but his anxiety was reaching new levels, and he couldn’t just keep calm anymore, even if it promised him a beating. And he was so sure it was coming, the way Megatron forced him to uncurl, and he was going to feel those massive fists punching him any klik now…

*-*-*-*-*

“When was the last time you refueled?”

Optimus blinked. Wh…? He blinked again, several times, unsure he had truly heard the question -- because surely it didn’t interest Megatron? At the same time, his CPU tried to come up with an answer as he tried to remember. He certainly had had no fuel today, as he had been on duty in the kitchen almost all solar cycle and ordered to clean up and go to the medbay for cosmetic repairs immediately after, without a fuel break. And last night, he had only had half his usual ration -- he had given the other part to Bumblebee, who had recently undergone repair and whose smaller frame needed the extra fuel. He wasn’t running on fumes yet, but his reserves’ level was low, so low...

He didn’t have chance to try and convey the idea -- obviously, he had taken too much time to answer, because Megatron’s displeased frown deepened. “I see.”

Optimus almost choked in surprise when he was suddenly pulled in a sitting position, his head bent forward, and the straps holding the gag swiftly removed. He felt them fall apart, and he spat out the ball by reflex. He briefly worried about doing so -- if an overseer didn’t allow you to, you didn’t remove the gag, period -- but quickly reassured himself that if it was the Decepticons’ Supreme Ruler who had taken it out, then Governor Straxus and his ilk couldn’t blame him, right? Slowly, he worked his lips, wincing at the stiffness and bolts of pain he felt all over his jaw, and started to massage his cheeks and chin rapidly while passing his glossa over his lips, checking for damage. There was no split, thankfully, but they felt dry and sore -- not a surprise, given how long they had been kept forcefully parted.

“Better?” Megatron’s question almost made him jump out of his armor and he quickly looked up at the Warlord, who was eyeing him with clear amusement. Silence stretched, Optimus frozen in shock at being addressed at all. “You’re authorized to talk, you know,” the Warlord finally added after a moment, and it was clear he was expecting an answer.

So Optimus provided readily. “Yes… Master,” he murmured softly, still wary of raising his voice louder than what Governor Straxus and his guards deemed an appropriate level. He only marked a slight hesitation at ‘Master’, wondering if he should use it or ‘Sir’ instead; he had known Decepticons who prefered one or the other, and who didn’t react well if he guessed wrong on their preferences. But ‘Master’ felt safer somewhat, and it usually brought less trouble. Megatron seemed pleased, because Optimus clearly heard his engines rev, albeit briefly. But the grey mech said nothing more, just raised an optic ridge while watching him.

Optimus shuffled uneasily before taking a decision. “How may I serve you, Master?” It was bold to ask -- Governor Straxus wouldn’t have appreciated the question, thinking slaves should already know what he wanted, as if they were telepaths, but hopefully Megatron wouldn’t think ill of him for asking?

The Warlord grinned, showing far too much pointed dentae for his comfort. “Oh, I can think of many ways you could, Autobot,” he purred. “But first…” His hand reached for his subspace pocket, and Optimus tensed, half-expecting him to pull out an energon whip or perhaps a wicked looking interface toy.

What came out instead was an Energon puff, one of the ones Optimus and other slaves had been serving all night long. Megatron let it rest in the center of his palm, as if offering. The Prime couldn’t help but stare, mouth watering with oral lubricant despite himself. Even if he hadn’t been so hungry, the treat would have looked delicious anyway: dark grey, matte, round basis covered with bright pink, whipped energon frosting, on which a round little ball of nickel had been put to decorate, and sprinkled with dark red shard which might have been crushed crystals or ruby shards. Optimus’ tank rumbled, and he felt his cheeks flush, but Megatron just threw his head back and laughed. It was a booming sound, and it only served to make Optimus more miserable. He fully expected Megatron to pull it back and eat it, taunting him with something he couldn’t, should never have, but to his surprise, Megatron’s hand came closer, the energon puff still sitting in its center.

“Take it,” the Warlord smiled -- smiled!! -- at him, gesturing. Optimus hesitated; was it a trap, perhaps? But his hunger and his low fuel reserves for the better of him and, with great hesitation, he took the treat with both hands.

For a Decepticon, it probably was only a bite, but for an Autobot, it was so much larger. Optimus contemplated the treat hungrily before hesitantly bringing it to his lips. Closing his optics and trying to smother any lingering fear -- surely, Megatron wasn’t being nice gratuitously, there would be a catch, perhaps it was poisoned? -- as he opened his mouth…

And just bite on it.

*-*-*-*-*

Primus, what an adorable little mech the Autobot was, Megatron thought dryly as the slave swallowed the first mouthful of energon puff, optics closed and an expression close to rapture on his face. Then the rapture let place to ravenous appetite, and the smaller mech bite in in earnest, accidentally spreading frosting all over his face, not even noticing as he swallowed the treat as quickly as he could, as if fearing it’d be taken away the moment he showed a klik of inattention.

Cute.. and sad at the same time, because the way he had wolfed down the treat was quite telling of his energy reserves or lack of. Shaking his head, Megatron presented him with another treat -- energon puff again, but cobalt blue rather than pink, and with a more acidic taste. Not that the Autobot cared; he wolfed it down the same way he had the first -- and he did the same with the third goodie Megatron let hang in front of his face.

Megatron just smiled dryly at him when blue optics looked up at him, expression demure and hopeful for another treat, but this time the Warlord was empty ended. If he had known how the evening would play out, he’d have subspaced a few more goodie or a whole energon cube or two…

Cheeks blushing madly as he realized what he must have looked like, the Autobot avoided his optics again and instead started to lick his fingers clean, still desperate for the smallest bit of energon it seemed. And still, the red and blue mech remained oblivious to the smear of frosting across his cheek.

Megatron smirked and purred. The Autobot looked up… and Megatron moved swiftly, grabbing him with an arm and bringing him close while bending over, licking a blue cheek clean than slipping his glossa into the smaller mech’s mouth, cutting short the small noise of surprise the slave made. Hmm, the whipped energon was still as sweet, and enjoying its taste over the lips of a pretty mech made it all the sweeter. Megatron shifted the mech in his arms, feeling him put his hands flat over his chest, though he didn’t try to push him away. His rock-hard spike pressed against his belly, and he was certain the soft mewl of the Autobot was due to its proximity. Not that Megatron cared; he instead deeped the kiss, enjoying the lack of resistance in the Autobot.

He only let it break once the last of the sweetness disappeared from his glossa, then he was fast to lick off yet another whipped energon smudge from the Autobot’s other cheek and repeat the gesture, his hands running along the Autobot’s back, caressing his plating in feather-light touches or frank, long strokes, testing what would make the mech react the most. So close in his arms, it was impossible for someone as well-trained as Megatron to miss every peaks and curls in the Autobot’s EM field, which was tinged with fear, but also confusion, a small measure of enjoyment as Megatron’s fingers found what seemed to be sensitive spots and tentative relief, probably over the fact Megatron had yet to force his way inside him.

When he finally broke his last kiss, Megatron leaned back slightly, smirking as the Autobot’s vents worked hard to let his body cool down. A most flattering flush run over his cheeks, and Megatron purred. “Enjoyable, wasn’t it?” He put a finger over the slave’s lips and caressed them lightly. “You do have most kissable lips, Autobot.”

“Ah… thank you… Master,” the slave whispered, avoiding his optics. His shoulders squared as he obviously fought down an internal battle to ask Megatron a question. His optics kept glancing down at the larger mech’s spike, which was still pressing insistently against his abdomen plating then quickly looked away again. The Warlord stayed silent, smirk still in place as he watched the smaller mech try and speak. Perhaps he shouldn’t have made his amusement so apparent, but he couldn’t help it. He could have taken the lead and do whatever he wished with the slave, but interfacing was always more pleasant when your partner reciprocated in some part or took initiatives. Of course, he didn’t expect much out of one of Straxus’ slaves, but all the same, he wanted that mech to ask things.

“Master… do you… want me to… to put my lips… over you?” the red and blue mech finally asked, frame rattling softly.

Megatron stroked his chin in contemplation. “Well, this is a very nice offer, and I won’t hesitate to take you on it, Autobot. But first, I think we need to discuss a few things. I have questions for you, and I want you to answer them. Truthfully.” Carefully, he moved the smaller body and pushed him down to lie on the berth padding, looming over him with a reassuring smile. Thighs started to cross before the Autobot seemed to think better of it and instead brought up his knees while twisting his body so he was half turned to the side. It didn’t stop Megatron’s rod to poke him in the leg rather insistently, but it hide away his bare away for the moment, something he probably needed to feel more at ease.

“Master?” the Autobot asked in the same whisper as before. “What… what do you want to know?” There was less stammering this time, Megatron noted. That was good, very good even; it would help smooth the conversation over.

“Many things, but let’s start by the most obvious: how much damages did you suffer on the inside?” he asked smoothly, letting one of his hands rest atop the slave’s thigh, though he didn’t try to move it further. The Autobot clearly hesitated, biting his lower lip. “I won’t punish you for speaking the truth,” Megatron cajoled again, wondering just how Straxus had conducted his training; while lying was to be beaten out of a slave if one wanted to avoid treachery, a slave also didn’t have to fear speaking the truth, especially when it came to their health. It was counterproductive otherwise.

A shudder, then… “It’s… slowly healing, Master,” the Autobot whispered, looking downward.

“The nature of the damages?” Megatron asked again, nuzzling his face briefly against the Autobot’s forehead, probably startling him out of his protoform.

“Three… three long tears… Master,” the Autobot whispered again. “Rat… The medic… who saw to me… he said I needed a… a deca-cycle of rest… to resolve the, the scarring.”

Megatron raised an optic ridge. “A deca-cycle only? It doesn’t seem like much. And when did he said that?”

Blue cheeks flushed. “It is a minimum… two deca-cycles… would be best… And he did said that… five solar cycles ago,” the slave finally admitted, cringing and waiting to be hit. Which Megatron had no intention of doing. “I’m sorry Master!” he blurted out. “I’m sorry! Please, don’t worry about the damages, you can still use me as you wish!” he said quickly, vents hitching. There was no cleansing fluid leaking from the optics, but it was obviously close to burst.

If Megatron had been a less scrupulous individual, he might have taken the slave on his offer and take him right there. After all, the slave didn’t belong to him personally, so why would he care if the already damaged valve was ruined in the process?

“What are you sorry for?” Megatron asked rhetorically, making the slave blink stupidly. Eh; It was almost cute. A large black finger came to stroke the smaller mech’s under the chin, like he would have with a felinoid in his laps -- and the Autobot indeed reminded him of a skittish cyber-cat, something which amused him to no end. “There is nothing you need to excuse for, Autobot. It is hardly your fault your previous user was rough and Governor Straxus didn’t allow you a break from your duty while you needed time to heal.” The slave tensed, probably rattled by the name of his owner. “Speaking of, is it usual for him? To not allow injured slaves a break from their duties? Speak without fear, I won’t hold whatever you say against you,” he elaborated at the blank look. Though he might hold it against Straxus himself… 

“... It is normal,” the red and blue mech finally murmured, avoiding his gaze yet again and not elaborating further.

“No matter the injury?”

A brief hesitation. “No. No matter.” Blue optics shuttered.

Small, careful answers, short and to the point. Good… and bad at the same time. It was yet another proof of how wasteful Lucifer’s Governor was. Megatron frowned, his processors working on the implications. Not allowing time off for slaves who had, say, a bent digit or a few dents, Megatron understood and could approve. But not allowing time to heal for more serious injuries, ones which could threaten the function assigned to those slaves? That was more serious. Really, what did Straxus think a pleasure slave was worth once his array was torn apart?

Unless… “What happens to slaves who can’t perform their duties anymore? Here in the palace?” the Warlord prompted, using his thumb to caress a blue cheek in small, slow circles. He had a pretty good idea already; the smelting pools didn’t just run on scraps and whatever was extracted from the mines.

“It… depends on the slave, Master,” the red and blue mech answered very softly, and Megatron perked up, attentive. “We… we mostly clean. There is… always a lot to do. The, the interfacing, it’s… random?” Not so random, in Megatron’s advice. “So long we can keep cleaning… we’re fine. But sometimes…” Another hesitation. “Sometimes, we get, we get noticed by the High Lord Governor and his Council.” Oh, because Straxus even called them his ‘Council’? What an interesting little tidbit. “Some… they don’t care if… if they can’t interface anymore. They can… still clean… even in, ah, hard to reach places?” Small models, ugly ones, and those who had enough qualifications to make themselves useful other than by spreading their legs, Megatron decrypted as the slave underneath him continued. “Those… those who can still work… the strong ones… are sent away… to work otherwhere.” The factories and the mines, where more arms were always needed, and where the death toll could be high without proper care. “The others…” A shrug, and a soft, soft sigh. “Lucifer is an hot planet.” So thrown in the smelting pools to die and melt.

Megatron snorted and stopped his caresses. “I see.” He’d have to have a word with Governor Straxus about that as well, and stress out how little ‘new toys’ the Governor would receive if he kept breaking his old ones. Really, the fear-inspiring General he had worked with during the Great War wouldn’t have been so careless with his ressources before.

But that was a line of thoughts best not pursued tonight. He had the answers he wanted -- mostly -- and now it was time to spend the remains of the night in more pleasant disposition.

“Well, you shouldn’t fear; I have no intention to aggravate your injuries by thoughtless handling,” he let out as he went to lie on his side next to the Prime, angling his body so they were facing each other. His still hard spike bobbled and pointed straight at the other mech, and the Autobot looked down at it worriedly.

“Master?” he asked.

A smirk played on Megatron’s face. “Tell me, Autobot. What do you know of non-penetrative interfacing?” He had expected a stronger blush, perhaps even sputtering and a healthy dose of relief in his EM field. What he hadn’t expected was a blank look of confusion, confusion which was mirrored in the Autobot’s field. Megatron blinked, stared and didn’t know if he should laugh in disbelief or cry with amusement. No? The Autobot couldn’t be THAT inexperienced and naive, right? Surely, he knew interfacing didn’t just compose of ‘Insert Tube B into Slot A and thrust’, right?

… Stupid. Autobots weren’t known to be imaginatives, or at least they weren’t back when Megatron had left Cybertron in exile in the wake of the Decepticons’ final defeat. The last he had heard of Shockwave, long since departed on his undercover mission, his spy had mentioned the Autobots and the Elite Guard in particular had a RULEBOOK concerning interfacing, and most of the content fell under: DON’T. And what was authorized was also very restricted, the interactions between lovers very hierarchized as well. Autobots weren’t supposed to hop in berth with just anyone or interface around.

And of course, considering the mechs Straxus surrounded himself with -- or the average level of intelligence of a lustful grunt in his army -- Megatron doubted the Autobot’s interfacing education had truly been corrected. How much of his experience resumed to just be pinned down and fragged into next week without a care for comfort and/or pleasure? If anything, it could only had convinced the Autobot interfacing was only a source of pain and embarrassment.

He finally let out a dry chuckle. Well… it made matters _interesting_. The Autobot shifted uneasily, blank look erased by nervousness. “Master?” he asked softly, and Megatron’s chuckle subsided as he watched him.

“Have you already sucked a spike?” he asked bluntly, and what an interesting color the cheeks of the slave turned at this simple question! Such an expressive face; Megatron hoped for the smaller mech’s sake he had owned some sort of battle mask when he had been serving on whatever outpost or ship Straxus’ troops had found him. It would have been very embarrassing for him otherwise. “Well? Will you not answer?” He tilted his head to the side. “It’s a simple question, Autobot. And didn’t you offer to, ah, ‘put your lips over me’ yourself?”

Perhaps he shouldn’t have jibbed, but he couldn’t help himself, and the Autobot reluctantly moved. “I… know how to use my glossa to, to pleasure a mech, yes, and if you wish, Master…” He was already propping himself on an elbow, ready to move closer and obey should Megatron give him the order.

But the Warlord tutted, and the motion was aborted in confusion. “Release your spike,” Megatron ordered, and the slave’s optics widened. Obviously, it wasn’t the kind of order he often received.

“Master?”

“You heard me, Autobot,” the grey mech answered benignly, looking down at the smaller mech’s interface array. Autobots didn’t have the warframes impressive sheaths, the civilian models favoring instead a round, often capped opening with spring mechanisms to allow it to come out or be easily tucked in. Decepticons’ spikes and valves were revealed and onlined at the same time without stimulation, while Autobots’ components could be onlined separately, something Megatron’s warriors found very convenient. Megatron himself was without opinion; and array was an array, and the slave before him was no different. Well, asides of the absence of a cap, which had probably been damaged or torn off at some point. “Release your spike, now,” he repeated again, calm and tranquil. 

The slave obeyed. The quiet ‘klik’ of the springs working was accompanied by the blunt tip of a spike shyly poking out of its housing, followed by the rest of a soft-looking, bend shaft. Intrigued, Megatron reached out with a hand and gave a small tug. The Autobot moaned, thighs shifting, but Megatron paid it no attention as he heard a note of uncomfort in the slave’s voice and his hands found -- slag, he should have expected it -- scar tissue.

“You were damaged there as well? How?” he asked, voice caught between amazement and discontentment. Really, was there any part of this slave still in good shape?! It surprised him though, because he wouldn’t have thought any of Straxus’ unimaginative grunt would have cared to play with a slave’s spike.

The scar marring it was an unwelcome surprise, though it didn’t seem to have affected the rod’s sensitivity. It would have been a pity if it had; despite its relative small size -- although it was perfectly proportioned for a mech of the slave’s size -- it was quite a nice spike. A silvery-white shaft the same color as the mech’s thighs, a red tip, blue chevrons decorating the length, neon-blue biolights spread in a spiral pattern all around it from under the bulbous tip to the hilt,... it truly was a nice design. Megatron tilted his head, inspecting the pattern of the darker grey spots which indicated repairs that nanites had been unable to completely erase. If he had to guess by the size and shape of those spots, and the way several biolights remained dark -- probably broken and disconnected to avoid error messages -- he guessed someone had half-crushed the rod in his hand before letting claws trail over it. In which order, he was unsure, but it probably made little difference for the slave.

Poor little thing, he thought as he continued his exploration. The slave groaned softly as Megatron run a thumb over the red tip marked with a blue chevron. “Well? What happened?” he pressed on, not stopping his ministration despite that.

“... The start of my… my training,” the mech whizzed loudly, his frame obviously starting to heat up from the simple ministrations -- it wouldn’t be hard to coax several overload out of him, Megatron was certain. “I… ‘s an accident… Released my spike… my sensors were wor, worked up and… couldn’t help… Seizer… Seizer didn’t appreciate.”

Humph. At least now he had a name for the fool who had done that. “The repairs seem to have been well-handled,” Megatron murmured. “You were lucky… and by extension, so I am.” He looked up at the Autobot, smirk spreading over his face as he noticed the half-shuttered optics, the faint trembles in his frame that weren’t for fear for once and not from pain either, heard the soft noise of vents working harder to cool down a frame that was feeling the first effect of arousal…

“Autobot? Here is my first order.” The frame tensed, the slave at attention. “What am I doing now to you? I want you to do the same thing to me.”

*-*-*-*-*

Wh… What? Optimus’ jaw didn’t drop all the way, but he couldn’t help but open his mouth and must have looked like a Cryo-fish out of the Cobalt Sea. Was Megatron… was he serious? He wanted him to…?

“Well, Autobot?” the Warlord asked, with a smile on his face which wouldn’t have been out of place on a Cyber-Cat who got into the oil tank. His thumb started to rub the underside of Optimus’ spike right at the junction of the shaft and the bulbous tip, and the red and blue mech jerked with a keening noise. Ooooooh Primus! That… how could it feel so good? “Don’t be shy; I won’t… eat you.”

Optimus didn’t like the intonations at all but after a short moment of hesitation, he tentatively reached for Megatron’s spike with one hand, supporting himself on his other elbow as he shifted. Megatron made a soft hiss as Optimus wrapped his hand around the basis of his spike and it almost made him let go, but the Warlord’s voice cut in and stopped him. “No, don’t remove your hand. That’s right, just keep it wrapped around… a little tighter, if you will, but that’s alright for now,” Megatron murmured. His hand moved, coming to wrap around the basis of Optimus’ own spike, and the Prime keened again. “Now, try to copy what I’m doing. One, two. One, two… aaaah, yes, like that,” the grey mech moaned softly as Optimus started to slowly pump his spike, mirroring the movements Megatron was impressing upon his own rod.

His free hand came to cover his mouth to try and cover his moans. Primus, he had forgotten how sensitive his spike could be! It’s been so long since he had tried to touch himself there, and he couldn’t remember anyone else touching him before, asides of Seizer, and it hadn’t been for pleasure, but for one of the most memorable punishments the Prime could remember facing. He had been lucky back then his spike hadn’t been completely crushed, which would have resulted in its total removal. He knew a few mechs to whom it had happened -- and to his eternal sorrow, Bumblebee was one of them.

He could still remember sharp claws slicing the first plate layer of his rod and digging in the sensitive protoform underneath as easily as in Proto-Butter, shattering his biolights with sharp pokes to each little nodes before that awful hand wrapped itself around him and _squeezed_... It was only pure dumb luck his spike hadn’t been crushed all the way. Seizer had miscalculated his hold and buried his own claws in his palm while he was tightening his hold, and he had let go yelping after only a few kliks, and Optimus had managed to crawl away while the violent Decepticon howled for a medic…

Megatron tapped on his hand, bringing him back to the present and, mortified, he looked at the Decepticon with the optics of a Dioptase-Deer caught in the headlights. Thankfully the Warlord didn’t look angry at his lack of attention -- and at the lack of attention to his spike. “Ah, ah, none of that, Autobot; I want to hear you. Don’t muffle the sounds you’re making.”

With reluctance, Optimus did as he was ordered. Megatron may have sounded reasonable so far, but he was still a Decepticon -- no, he was THE Decepticon per excellence -- which meant he could very well turn violent in a matter of kliks if Optimus didn’t perform to his expectations. So he tried to forget the rest and focus on the task at hand, clumsily copying Megatron’s moves on his spike -- and wondering dimly if what he did felt as good for the Warlord as it did for him. Megatron was certainly far less vocal, despite Optimus’ pumping motions gaining in speed and assurance.

“Hmmm, yessssss,” Megatron finally let out as he shifted and moved closer to Optimus, so close the tip of their respective spikes almost touched. So close, it was easy to notice the size difference; Optimus’ spike could have easily disappeared in both the Warlord’s hands, while Optimus’ single hand barely managed to wrap itself around the whole girth of Megatron’s. “Oooh, you got great hands, Autobot. Yes, keep it up,” Megatron moaned again, his hips suddenly taking a rolling motion that made the tip of his spike bump with Optimus’ own.

Optimus howled, both in surprise and in pleasure; he hadn’t registered the tip was so sensitive by this point!

And Megatron’s chuckle only made his cheeks burn hotter; “And you make the nicest sounds as well,” Megatron commented as he slightly released his hold on Optimus’ spike -- Primus, it was so stiff now, had Megatron truly managed to turn him on that much? Ratchet had often soothingly murmured to him that their bodies were wired to react to pleasurable stimuli and he shouldn’t be ashamed when his body enjoyed something, even when his mind didn’t follow, but still… It had never happened with other Decepticons before. Granted, none of them had truly tried to play with his spike, except to hurt him. Perhaps it was just the contrast, and feeling genuine pleasurable touch for the first time in stellar cycles…

“Aaaaah!” he gasped when Megatron’s hand tightened again -- but not just on his spike, no; the Warlord actually had it wrapped around both their interface rod, bringing them and rubbing them together in his palm.

“Do like me, Autobot,” the Warlord purred and, choking on a moan, Optimus obeyed, shaky fingers reaching out and wrapping around both their spikes. But the two together were so large… after a moment of hesitation, he wrapped both hands around their mechhoods and squeezed light, being rewarded by a purr and a moan of appreciation from the Warlord. Megatron’s hand, larger, pumped them together at the bottom while his, smaller, were fastened just under their tips as he tentatively rubbed them together or caressed them with his thumbs together or apart. It felt… surprisingly good, making him feel kind of hazy.

“Do it at your pace, Autobot,” Megatron’s voice felt like it was lost in a fog, making Optimus blink. “Do it as you feel like doing it… As it would please you.” There was a small waver to the Warlord’s voice -- pleasure, perhaps? He still sounded calm and collected, very unlike Optimus at all.

“See? It’s easy,” Megatron cooed again, and Optimus nodded absentmindedly; it was indeed very easy, so long he forgot who he was in… and to his surprise, he could manage to without much effort, especially so long he focused on the two spikes he was working on and avoided looking up to watch his partner. It wasn’t so hard; Megatron’s spike and his (especially his) had started to produce pre-transfluid, and the pale silvery-pink liquid oozed quietly from their respective splits, only for Optimus to spread it over with his fingers, easing the friction as he continued to rub and caress and occasionally pump their spikes together. Sometimes he could feel Megatron’s fist bumping into his, and he blushed harder while the large grey mech just chuckled.

Asides of their respective pants and Megatron’s occasional soft sounds of encouragement, there was only silence. It felt so peaceful, so… No, not right, but far less wrong than most things had for the better part of the last three vorns. Decepticons had never cared if they left him broken before, and some had definitely aimed to tear him in pieces, physically like mentally, but here, in this room, with Megatron, who was dangerous but who also sounded so calm and hadn’t attempted to cause him harm… It felt almost… safe.

“Huuuuuuuugggghhhh,” Optimus moaned as he finally lose it and felt himself overload. It was discreet, far less violent than one would have expected -- a result of his training, again. Some Decepticons just didn’t like to see slaves getting off, and Optimus had, like many mechs in the palace, learned to stifle his cries of unwilling pleasure and control the tremors of his body whenever he (rarely) reached an overload. His hips jerked thrice as transfluid shot out of his spike and into his hands, and then he stilled, unsure of what he should do now and, worse, of how Megatron was going to react; surely, he’d be unhappy Optimus had gotten off so soon, and before he did?

But to his surprise, and his frame relaxed minutely at that, Megatron just laughed good-heartedly, as if it was nothing. “Well, that was fast. Someone isn’t used to hold his charge, is he?” the grey mech asked, releasing his hold on their combined spikes.

Optimus eyed it warily. If his was already softening, the pressure taken off by his overload, Megatron’s spike seemed still as hard, if not harder than before, and pre-transfluid continued to seep out of the split at the top. The slave’s hands were still covered with the mix. Optimus blushed and quickly looked away, only for his optics to be immediately draw back. Megatron hadn’t moved, still lying on his side with his chin in his hand, an amused smile on his face, but he looked like he was waiting for something. Optimus looked from the Warlord’s face to his spike several times, biting his lower lip as he came to a conclusion.

Perhaps he was wrong, but hopefully, even if he was, the Supreme Lord of the Decepticon wouldn’t think ill of him for having assumed.

“Master? May I… lick you clean?” he asked, cheeks burning yet again. Primus, at this rate, he feared they’d never go back to their usual color.

Megatron smiled. “A most generous offer for which I thank you, Autobot. Just let me get in a more comfortable position, hmm?” He moved, sitting down, his spike bobbling and sending droplets of fluids everywhere. Not a fool, Optimus immediately went to his hands and knees and started to gather the pillows and cushions adorning the berth that they had moved earlier, pushing them against the headboard to make a comfortable pile on which the Warlord could easily recline.

*-*-*-*-*

Megatron watched the slave work on the cushions pill with a mix of amusement and pride, his optics focused on the perp blue aft moving most enticingly before him. Such a shame he couldn’t just take the mech as he pleased, but the slave’s ready obedience easily made up for this. He understood fast and if he wasn’t quite ready to take full initiatives, he knew how to pick clues; Megatron didn’t even had to mention what he wished next for the Autobot to spontaneously offer it.

Good mech.

He wished the Autobot’s overload hadn’t come so soon, however. He wouldn’t have minded continuing to pump that spike for a while longer. Of course, he couldn’t have expected the mech to have the same endurance as him and, hopefully, the rest of the night could be just as pleasant.

“Master?” the whisper came out, bringing his attention back. Sitting on his heels, hands in his laps, the slave was watching him with a wary expectation. Next to him, the pile was done, big and tall enough to support Megatron in a comfortable position. Fast worker, Megatron thought with approval.

“Why, thank you, Autobot. It’ll make for a most comfortable seat,” he chuckled as he moved to lie on the cushions, spreading his legs wide and bending them at the knee in order to give the slave an easy access to his spike. The Autobot moved quietly, dragging himself forward and between Megatron’s spread legs before lowering himself into position, eyeing his spike as if wondering by which part to start.

It was strangely endearing. “Take your time, Autobot,” he encourage him calmly, bringing those blue optics back on him. “Start slowly if you wish. Don’t push yourself to go too fast for my sake. You don’t need to take all of me down your throat if you don’t think you can or aren’t ready for it,” he added as an afterthought, keeping his expression encouraging.

The Autobot’s EM field registered surprised, but also faint hope. Megatron just kept smiling. In truth, he would have quite liked feeling himself down that intake, but there was no need to push the Autobot past his comfort zone for now. Not after he had obviously relaxed so much thank to some mutual masturbation and frottage and Megatron avoiding to raise his voice. Plus, to be honest, given their size difference, he couldn’t be fully certain the Autobot would truly be able to take him whole and he wasn’t in the mood to cause more damage to a mech who was servicing him.

So he kept smiling as the Autobot finally went to work, bending forward and wrapping for hands around his thick rod, giving it a testing tug before lowering his helm and giving his spike a small lick over the split. Megatron’s frame shuddered; that felt so good! But he kept quiet, not wanting to startle the Autobot as he gave more small licks, shy and tentative, alternating with butterfly-light kisses all over the head of his spike while his hands made discreet pumping motions and distributed shy caresses unevenly all over his length.

Normally, Megatron prefered more aggressive contacts -- or at least most of his interfacing sessions, be it with Starscream, Strika and eventually Lugnut if he was that desperate, had more flavor and more dominance shows, punches could be exchanged and furnitures and kibbles regularly ended broken. Still, there was something naively charming and relaxing about having a lover who was going slowly and took his time, who seemed unsure but showed plenty of good will, and without ‘worshipping’ him the way Lugnut tended to do. And the Autobot’s lips and glossa felt very, very good indeed...

He made appropriate soft sounds of encouragements in between two moans as the Autobot worked him over, his licks growing longer and bolder as he took confidence in himself. Obviously, Megatron’s speech hadn’t been wasted on him. He shuddered visibly when that glossa just wrapped itself around his rod and the Autobot’s lips just closed over the head of his spike and he started to suck on it like he would on an energon lollipop.

“Ooooooo!” he let out, hips jerking forward by reflex as the Autobot’s head bobbled, his hands gripping his spike a little stronger in order to keep steady. Dim blue optics looked up at him, and if Megatron hadn’t known better, he could have swore the Autobot had (was?) smirking, proud of the effect he was having. Frag. What little minx he could have been if Straxus and his mechs hadn’t beaten it out of him, Megatron thought as he raised a hand to pat that blue helm and play with a finial. From the increase of the sucking motions on his spike, it seemed it was well-received. “Very good, Autobot,” he murmured, feeling his charge build further.

He wasn’t ready to overload yet, though. Or rather, if he overloaded now, he would still feel worked up, and he prefered to get rid of his building charge in one go.

Unlike civilian frames such as the Autobot’s own (though his general looks reminded him of former designs that had been since long scrapped) who could disperse a charge as quickly as it built, war-frames took naturally more time to build or to get rid of their owns. Oh, they had no trouble to overload, but one overload wasn’t always sufficient to disperse the whole accumulation of energy through their systems -- which accounted for a lots of the rumors on their berth prowess and the fact most Decepticons’ rods didn’t soften the slightest after overload.

Some loved to enjoy multiple overloads before letting it disperse altogether; Strika was of that number, and smart mechs avoided passing in front of her quarters when Lugnut was on board with her if they didn’t want to heard loud fragging mixed with an avalanche of praises and weird poetry bits about certain pieces of their respective anatomy. Some, like Cyclonus, prefered to let it go at once, even if to reach that point, they needed a partner with as much endurance as them. Megatron himself was undecided, seeing the pros and cons of both systems and did one or the other depending on his mood and/or his partner(s).

With the Autobot slave, for example, Megatron prefered to do it only once if he could. Of course, had he been less damaged on the inside, Megatron could have make him love all night, long and sweet and without caring about how many times him or the Autobot came undone, but as it was, a single but definitive overload would probably be best.

At least, a single one… with his spike. Hum, yes; if he did THAT, then he could disperse it in twice, and be sated.

He raised an optic ridge as the Autobot made a worthy effort to take more of him in his mouth, progressing a good two inches and letting the tip press against the back of his throat tubing. “Hmmm, yessss,” he murmured in a hiss, giving the finial he had been playing with a playful tug. Despite his quietness, the slave definitely knew how to use that mouth. But it was also clear that taking more than he already had would be a struggle, Megatron noticed, hearing the higher, harder pitch of the Autobot’s vents and feeling the minute shakes in his frame as he paused.

Megatron immediately released the finial and pushed the Autobot back. The wet heat surrounding him disappeared with a ‘plop’ as blue, still swollen lips parted and let him slide out. Confused optics, in which an hint of fear was back, looked up at him in askance. “Master? Did I… did I do wrong?”

Megatron shook his head once. “You were perfect Autobot, but you certainly didn’t listen to me when I said not to push yourself, did you?”

The smaller mech shuddered visibly. “I’m… I’m sorry Master. I thought you wanted… I thought it’d, it would please you? Please, Master, I’m sorry if…”

Oh, not simpering excuses! He got enough of them from Starscream! Though in the slave’s case, it was more excusable. “And you did please me,” he stopped the Autobot, raising a hand and stroking the other mech’s cheek. “You pleased me very much. However, don’t think me an unobservant fool. You were definitely progressing faster than what you felt comfortable with -- and I did tell you you didn’t had to try and take me all the way, which you definitely tried. May I ask why?”

It wasn’t so much an amiable question and a disguised order, and the Autobot understood it well.

He ducked his head, his EM field radiating misery to Megatron’s trained sensors. Misery, and disappointment in himself; curious. “I’m sorry, Master. Other… other Masters --” the Autobot forced out, obviously uncertain of how to call the rest of the Decepticons collectively and settling for the easier option, “-- always prefered… when things progressed… fast… and I…”

Megatron shuttered his optics briefly. “I see.” And see he did; Megatron might have cajoled him into letting his guard down, but the Autobot was a well-trained slave, and one who wasn’t used to niceties. Of course, when in doubt, he’d revert back to his training and put whatever concern about what he could and couldn’t do asides in favor of pleasing his Master as much as he could to avoid getting punished. “Well, I suppose I can’t fault you,” he mused aloud. “However, when you’re with me, those are MY orders you must obey, and MY lead you must follow. Understood?”

The Autobot nodded quickly, eagerly. “Yes, Master,” he let out in a strangled voice.

“But let’s forget that for the moment,” Megatron calmed him before he could panic, cupping his cheek to force him to look at him. “I think I had enough of your mouth for now, so I think it’s time to try something else. Tell me, Autobot; you mentioned tears inside your valve, but how is the external one healing?” Blue optics widened in panic and Megatron shushed him before he could stammer. “I know it must be sensitive still, but how much? What have the medics which oversaw your repairs said? Be truthful, it’s important.” Because if the scar tissue he saw earlier was still too sensitive, then he’d have to make do with the Autobot’s mouth again.

The red and blue mech fidgeted uneasily, and Megatron brought him closer, letting his spike bump against the smaller mech’s thigh. “The truth, Autobot,” he repeated, and extended his sensors’ range to pick up on the smallest indication the other mech’s EM field could give him.

“... It varies, Master,” the Autobot finally let out, still reeking of misery. “Direct contact… can hurt.” Like when Megatron had poked it earlier during his inspection. “It… stings… when it’s probed. Otherwise… it doesn’t bother me… much.” And it was true -- mostly. It was just one more injury in a long list, and he was used to them by this point.

“‘Stings’, hum?” Megatron repeated, raising an optic ridge. He could detect no falsity here, at least no direct one, but still… “If I caress you there, will it hurt?”

The Autobot hesitated. “... I don’t know, Master,” he murmured, avoiding his optics. His EM field fluctuated, but he was probably telling the truth; at this point, he couldn’t know. Megatron leaned back and thought. That one healing scar was a problem -- the other were as well, but they were mostly healed, and when he had touched them earlier, the Autobot hadn’t reacted much or at all, which was encouraging -- but given its location, it was probably possible to do what he wished without touching it, or barely so. He’d just need to make the Autobot part his folds wild. But at the same time, if he made him part them immediately, the rubbing he had envisaged might not produce enough lubricant.

Ah, but there was an easy solution!

Deftly, he reached for his subspace pocket and, after a moment of foraging, pulled out a non-descriptive blue tube he handed the Autobot with a nod. “There, use it.” At the blank look he received in return, he could only chuckle before patting the Autobot’s helm reassuringly. “Don’t worry, it’s just lubricant. Spread it over your folds and the rim of your valve, then spread the rest over my spike,” he added as an afterthought. Having his spike slick as well would be for the best.

Gingerly, the Autobot took the tube and after turning it in his hands for a moment, started to unscrew the lid. The thick blue paste came out automatically the moment the lid came off -- it was a new tube, one Megatron hadn’t had use for until now, and the pressure inside was just asking for an out -- startling the Autobot whose hand immediately shot up to avoid the first blob to fall on the berth padding.

“Wait,” Megatron called as he watched the Autobot slowly bring his hand close to his array, making him pause. “I want to watch you.” He didn’t need to say more; the Autobot understood his request easily enough, optics widening slightly before he looked down again, red creeping back over his cheeks. He looked nice when he was embarrassed…

He watched intently as the Autobot put the tube next to him and used his free hand to gather a few of the remaining pillows he hadn’t used for Megatron -- Primus, Straxus loved the damn things; why else would he have he furnished a berth with so many if he didn’t? -- to make a makeshift pile on which he leaned against, sitting and spreading his legs wide, his position mirroring Megatron’s.

Elbows resting on commonly placed pillows, the Warlord intertwined his fingers in contentment, letting them rest on his abdomen and watched, grinning, as the Autobot tentatively started to spread the lubricant over himself, moaning softly as he touched what appeared to be sensitive spots. Megatron made note to remember where they were situated for further use though, as he was discovering as the Autobot’s fingers rubbed small circles all over the mesh of his array, the scars would be a problem. Obviously, several had crossed over those spots and even if his moans were mostly of pleasure, the Autobot sometimes grimaced in pain or discomfort. A pity. Then again… there were ways to tease the scar tissue just right to increase pleasure.

Something to consider for later. He’d need to show the Autobot how to do it. In the meanwhile, however, he was perfectly happy to just watch the impromptu show the Autobot was providing him with. Nibbling on his lips while blue hands stroked delicate folds, spreading the lubricant Megatron had so generously provided him with all over them, the Autobot made for a very erotic sight. He raised an optic ridge when he saw him lightly pinch them between two fingers, puzzled until he realized the Autobot was also trying to naturally produce lubricant himself. His grin widened at the realization; well-trained didn’t even cover it.

And the simple act of being allowed and encourage to touch himself seemed to put the red of blue mech more at ease than anything Megatron could have said or done. It was absolutely delightful to see those folds being rolled, pinched, parted, brought back together as the Autobot slowly but steadily coated them with a generous amount of lubricant. Every now and then, Megatron could get a peek at the rim of the valve itself, which was slowly oozing with the mech’s own lubricant. Unconsciously, he licked his lips, wondering if perhaps he shouldn’t scrap his plans and bury his face between those lovely thighs. And the soft little sounds the Autobot kept making threatened to drive him insane.

“Enough,” he finally let out, letting his fingers fall apart. The Autobot paused, looking up and crossing his gaze. “You’re doing a great job, Autobot, but I think it’s time you focus on me, isn’t it?” He smiled benignly, and the Autobot shyly nodded and crawled forward on his knees, one hand tightened around the lubricant tube, pressing it to let more oily paste out. Megatron spread his legs wider as the smaller mech installed himself between them.

He let out a pleased hum as the Autobot’s hands wrapped himself around his rod and started to stroke and pump it. Megatron leaned back against the pillows, face twitching at the sensation of the cool, gelified paste being spread over him. His systems were running hot, and his spike literally pulsed with a charge that begged to be released. He half-toyed with the idea of having the slave suck on his spike again but… no. He wanted a little variety. “Put more on,” he breathed heavily, hands curling into fists in the pillows, threatening to rip the fabric apart. The Autobot, ever obedient, immediately followed his instructions, and another coat of lubricant was added over him.

Megatron’s optics shuttered for a moment as his vents worked hard to help cool his frame. “I think it’ll be enough,” he finally said as he felt his systems tingling, sensors working to their highest setting, registering the barest brush against his plating, the tiniest move of the air around him, and the smallest fluctuation in the Autobot’s field. He didn’t even need to light up his optics again to feel him move and lean back, waiting for further instruction. He could feel the minute shakes, the nervousness increasing tenfold, the deep pit of misery as the slave waited, probably expecting to be forced to ride Megatron’s spike despite his inner injuries.

Fortunately for him, that wasn’t Megatron’s plan. Well, there would be riding involved, but not as the Autobot feared it would.

“Come here,” he murmured, lighting his optics again and beaconing the smaller mech to come closer with a simple wave of his hand. “Straddle me -- no, no, don’t come down like that. There, let me help you,” he chided him gently as he grabbed the enticing blue hips and gently tugged the Autobot forward, guiding him so he was straddling his hips, resting just above his spike, its tip poking at the inner side of those silvery-white thighs. The Autobot’s frame shook slightly, but Megatron just smiled thinly. “Don’t be so nervous, Autobot. I don’t intend to slide inside you.”

The Autobot blinked, taken aback. “Master? What… what do you wish, then?”

“Sshhh, I think you’re going to understand very fast. Just let me continue to guide you,” Megatron murmured, lowering and shifting the Autobot’s body until his spike was sliding against the red and blue mech’s array. Dawning comprehension filled the slave’s optics, and his jaw dropped open in surprise. Obviously, plain rubbing wasn’t something he had considered, but wherever it was because of inexperience, lack of imagination or because it sounded too plain for the Supreme Ruler of the Decepticons was up to debate; Megatron was starting to get a good idea of what could have cause that one big scar on the Autobot’s valve folds… 

Ah, but no matter. He needed to focus. “Part your folds,” he ordered, and the Autobot obeyed with fumbling hands, Megatron gently pressing his spike until he could feel it resting just against the rim, the parted folds surrounding his shaft in a heap. His hold on the Autobot’s hips still firm, he slowly started to make him roll his hips forward and backward, with the effect of making the slick valve rub back and forth against his just as slick spike, the generous coating of lube on both their interface bits easing the friction -- and avoiding pulling at the scars on the Autobot’s array.

Said Autobot’s mouth was open in a ‘o’ of surprise and pleasure, optics half-shuttered and frame shuddering as he tried to find leverage, anything to hold himself in position as the rubbing increased between his thighs and his motors relays shorted out. If Megatron hadn’t been the one holding him, he would have crashed forward, face flat against the Warlord’s chest.

“Hmm, sensitive, aren’t you?” Megatron chuckled as he took pity of the Autobot and shifted him so the red and blue mech could grab his shoulders and use them to brace himself. It seemed to be much appreciated, if he had to judge from the gasp the Autobot emitted as he angles his spike to slide _just_ right and brush against his external node and the way those blue hands desperately grasped him as his frame shook. “Make that very sensitive.”

“Master!” the slave whined, his hands desperately tightening over his plating, and Megatron was actually surprised at their strength. The Autobot wasn’t strong enough to dent his metal under his own power alone -- Megatron’s armor was just too reinforced for a civilian frame to leave a mark on it -- but the pressure he felt was acute and far higher than what he would have expected. It made him briefly wonder what kind of warrior the Autobot could or would have been, under different circumstances.

Though Megatron rather enjoyed the Autobot’s current position, so he quickly dropped that train of thought, concentrating instead on making the Autobot slide smoothly along his spike -- something the Autobot greatly helped him with, without needing to be asked. Why, even if Megatron still held him and continued to guide his moves, the Autobot had started to move on his own, and Megatron’s only job at this point was to keep him steady. He didn’t even need to ask the slave to tighten his thighs to increase the sensations, the red and blue mech doing it all of his own, moaning wantonly all the while.

And Megatron wasn’t far behind, his moans only slightly more controlled than the slave’s owns. Of course, reaching overload that way would take longer than more ‘traditional’ interfacing, but it was just as pleasurable. On an impulse, he leaned forward and caught the Autobot’s lips in a kiss. The other mech stiffened briefly, but didn’t fight him and even answered tentatively to the kiss, his glossa poking at Megatron’s. Good mech. Megatron deepened the kiss, still keeping the same smooth, slow rhythm of thrusts, despite the Autobot trying to fasten the pace a few times, obviously more aroused than he tried to let on. That was very flattering to the Warlord, but he had no intention of going too fast.

It was his night, and he had every intention to enjoy it to its fullest, at his own pace.

And enjoy it he did.

He couldn’t say how long they remained in that position -- him half-sitting, half-lying on the pillows pile, the Autobots clinging to his frame as he was slide back and forth all the way on Megatron’s length, the two of them sometimes kissing, sometimes nibbling at throat and cheeks and finials. Well, mostly Megatron; the Autobot for his part had a tendency to hide his face against Megatron’s chestplates in a vain attempt to silence himself, but the Warlord didn’t mind. The feeling of that small helm burrowing against him was nice enough, and it didn’t stop him from enjoying himself.

Neither did the Autobot; he overloaded much sooner than Megatron had expected -- but he should have expected it, really; civilian frame, already having experience an overload tonight (even if by spike stimulation), used to being abused and getting a shot at non-painful interfacing? It was a miracle he wasn’t putty in the Warlord’s hands. Then again, it wasn’t as if he was offering any resistance to anything…

By the time enough heat had build in his frame and his circuits’ tingles had increased so much Megatron knew he was close to release, the Autobot was reduced to incoherent whimpers and much shifting as he tried to make sure the slides hit his anterior node each time. Megatron was only too happy to oblige, feeling in a rewarding mood. Perhaps he could coax another overload out of the needy slave before he hit his own release?

However, he was too close to it already, and by the time he considered the idea, his hips were jerking up faster and his grips had already tightened, and he had taken to actually _drop_ the slave on his spike to go faster, reducing his slides to one direction only. Then the Autobot cried as Megatron nibbled his neck, a sound short and clear and beautiful, and the Warlord just came undone. Transfluid sprouted out of his spike like a tsunami as he roared in pleasure, hands and arms moving to just hug the Autobot close while his Spark flared in its chamber, the lips of this lovely valve resting plushly at the bottom of his interface rod.

He didn’t black out -- a single overload wasn’t enough for that -- but he had to reboot his optics several times in order to clear his suddenly staticky vision. In his arms, the Autobot was limply curled, awaiting his eventual release -- or Megatron’s further orders. The Warlord bend down to kiss him on the forehead with a chuckle.

“Well, that’s what I call an overload. Thank you for your assistance, Autobot.”

“... thank you, Master?” the Autobot blinked as he tried to move and sit up, only to cry out as Megatron rolled, still holding him in his arms, then pinned him to the berth. “Master?”

Megatron hushed him with a finger to the lips as he lowered himself and parted the Autobot’s thigh. Thank to his overload, they weren’t as pristine as before, transfluid and lubricant dripping down them. The Warlord’s glossa passed on his lips briefly. He looked up at the Autobot’s face and smirked. “Shhh. You, ah, cleaned me earlier; it’s only fair I return the favor, don’t you think?”

*-*-*-*-*

Wh…?

Surely Optimus had heard it wrong; surely Megatron Emperor of Destruction, the Elite Guard’s ban, every Autobot’s very own boogeyman, hadn’t just offhandedly said he was going to…? That… that was impossible! No self-respecting Decepticon would…?

But here he was, with Megatron holding his thighs apart, supporting them, his face buried between them as if it was nothing. More than that, he could feel Megatron’s breath, hot air expelled from his olfactive sensor, right over his array, he could feel him hum in contentment… and more than that, he could feel a long, long glossa running off his thigh, licking away a trail of lubricant and transfluid as if it was the sweetest energon ever.

Optimus wriggled; Megatron’s grip on his thighs became firmer, and the Warlord’s face buried deeper into his array. Optimus keened as he felt the larger mech’s olfactive sensor brush against his swollen anterior node, while that glossa slide easily over his folds, lapping away all trace of Megatron’s release and Optimus’ own pleasure. Primus, he couldn’t believe he had actually enjoyed the act; that made no sense! But enjoy himself he had, to his amazement and shame.

Especially his shame; no Autobot should enjoy being intimate with a Decepticon, much less so Megatron himself. And no one should enjoy forced interfacing -- for despite Megatron not hitting him, Optimus still wasn’t partaking in the act of his full violation. So why, why did he react like that? Not just his body, but him himself, relaxing and strangely wanting more? Was he truly so desperate for gentle touch, and the illusion of having a lover who cared, if only a little, for his comfort? Sentinel was right; he was pathetic. And if Optimus ever managed to get back to Cybertron, he could look at his former friend in the optics and admit so aloud without a second thought.

But right now, as Megatron’s glossa lapped at his valve insistently, removing all traces of their lovemaking, he couldn’t bring himself to truly care. So he just whined and panted and shook his head weakly while shuttering his optics while Megatron just hummed against his hyper-sensitive valve, bringing so close, oh so close to another overload…

Until he brutally stopped, making Optimus gasp and cry out in protest, a protest that was quickly silenced by Megatron’s helm coming up and the Warlord kissing him -- kissing him, with Optimus’ own lubricant and the last drops of the Warlords’ own transfluid on his lips, forcing Optimus to get a taste. A taste, the Prime thought dimly, which wasn’t as bad as he had feared.

“There, you’re clean -- mostly. But tell me, do you like what I’m doing to you, Autobot? Does it feel good to you?” Megatron questioned after he broke the kiss, the taste remaining on Optimus’ mouth. The Prime blinked stupidly before answering.

“Yes, Master. I… I do like it.” And it wasn’t a lie, not like he usually lied through his dental plates to the ‘Cons who took him brutally any way they fancied and who asked him if he liked it, despite his cries and grunt of pain, malice in their optics. “It feels… really good.” Even if some of his scars tingled a little, though not to the point of causing him actual pain. Frankly, it surprised him, and he wondered if there had been a numbing agent in the gel Megatron had handed him. Plus, despite the rutting at the end, the Warlord had been very careful not to touch said scars, decreasing the chances they’d cause him pain.

Megatron smiled, and his expression made Optimus feel self-conscious and brought back some of his nervousness. “I’m glad it does, Autobot, because I’d like you to do the same thing to me.”

Optimus’ CPU blanked for a moment as he analyzed the sentence several times to be sure he had heard it right. Having the Decepticon’s Supreme Leader lick his valve was one thing, but to lick Megatron’s valve in turn? That couldn’t be right! Decepticons never used their valves!

… Or at least they didn’t with their slaves.

The Prime vented deeply, trying to focus. It was unexpected, crazy even, but it wasn’t as if the Warlord had asked him to spike him, right? He could do it. “Yes, Master,” he murmured as Megatron’s shifted, moving so his interface array was right in front of Optimus’ face. But to his surprise, the Warlord himself still had his own face pointed right at Optimus’ valve. His cheeks reddened again, realizing what the other mech wanted.

“Master? You… you’re sure?” He needed a confirmation, because it really made no sense at all; Decepticons didn’t act like that, they just didn’t. Plus, he was far smaller than Megatron, and the position the grey mech was taking in order to have their faces and arrays aligned couldn’t be very comfortable. Surely the Warlord was going to change his mind any moment now, realizing it wasn’t…?

Megatron just had a hearty, low laugh. “Oh, my dear little Autobot; I wouldn’t have gotten into this position if I wasn’t. Now, let’s start, shall we?”

Optimus gasped as he felt the return of those lips on his valve’s lips, brushing oh so lightly, teasing him. At the same time, he was lowering his hips, bringing his own valve closer to the Prime. Swallowing nervously, Optimus tentatively reached out for the bigger mech’s hips, putting his hands on black plating to steady himself as he let his torso rose up, opened his mouth and with much hesitation, closed it over the ready folds of Megatron’s valve.

Primus Almighty… He really was doing it. The realization send flutters of uneasiness and morbid amusement down his Spark. He really had his face buried in Lord Megatron’s valve. If he tried to spread the tale, he was certain no one would ever believe him. He shuffled and groaned as he felt the Warlord hum against his valve, sending pleasant vibrations across his array as a reminder he was expecting more from Optimus than just kiss the delicate mesh folds.

Even though he wasn’t quite certain of how to process -- Allspark, he couldn’t say he had ever tried that! -- the Prime recognized a subtle command when he heard one. After a moment of reflexion, he let his gossa dart out to poke at the rim of the Warlord’s valve. He was rewarded with a little sound of appreciation, and the taste of a thick liquid on his glossa. Primus, was it lubricant?! Megatron’s lubricant?! Oooh, the situation was so weird…! Trying to focus, which was hard with the way the larger mech was playing with him, Optimus did his best to try and copy what the Warlord was doing to his own valve, alternating kisses and lips, working over various parts of the valve in random order, sometimes focusing on the right lip, sometimes on the left, sometimes letting his glossa dig between them and tease the rim, which was quietly but steadily oozing bed of lubricant Optimus ‘cleaned’ away, although he knew there had to be a mess around his mouth by now. Slowly becoming more acquainted with oral and feeling suddenly bolder, Optimus let his lips close over the Warlord’s anterior node and made a sucking motion.

Megatron _howled_ , and a frightened Optimus immediately let go. He shouldn’t have done that! But Megatron didn’t seem angry as he chuckled and looked at him upside-down. “Why, I hadn’t expected that of you, Autobot. Someone knows how to fight dirty, hmm?” Optimus just stared, feeling both terrified and strangely flattered for reasons he couldn’t even begin to understand. Megatron raised an optic ridge. “I won’t mind if you do it again,” he simply said before focusing back to Optimus’ array, his glossa trailing around it deftly and, with a shudder, Optimus went back to provide his attentions to Megatron’s own.

The weirdness was still present, but the red and blue mech was slowly getting accustomed to it. It wasn’t a trap, since Megatron hadn’t turned on him and tortured him for daring to touch his valve, but it was also the most bizarre request the Prime ever had to satisfy, and it weighed on him still as he pondered, deep inside, why Megatron was so different.

It didn’t stop him from doing his best to pleasure the Warlord, just in case. The bright red anterior node, a shade brighter than the spike’s biolights, was given teasing little licks and soft kisses, the folds of the valve were spread by the force of his glossa around, and more and more beads of lubricant seemed to crash over the Prime’s face, more than he could readily grab and lick away with his glossa. From time to time, Optimus could hear the Warlord hiss softly as he sucked on one lip or, when he felt even bolder, nibbled on it, giving very light bites that made Megatron made a sound somewhere between a grunt and a whimper.

It amazed the Prime how much in control of himself the Warlord remained, when himself was just a pathetic, barely coherent mess, panting heavily and only managing to continue his licks and efforts on Megatron’s valve because he was focusing all his remaining processing power on it.

For if the Warlord accused him to ‘fight dirty’, the grey mech had no trouble getting back at him at all. Licks, kisses, love bites, long, steady hums of his vocalizers rained over Optimus’ already oversensitive valve, and if he hadn’t overloaded already, it was only because Megatron always seemed to know when he was on the edge and stopped abruptly his efforts, only to restart them again after long, agonizing minutes. It was very draining for Optimus’ systems, not that the Prime kept a look on his energy levels at this point. Nothing counted more right now than the delicate grey mesh folds he was pleasuring.

That’s it, until they were suddenly withdrew from him. He didn’t quite keen when Megatron’s rose his hips without warning, letting Optimus’ mouth drift over his thigh, dirtied by lubricant, but it was close. Even when the Warlord loomed over him, he could only watch him in confusion and wonder if he had done something wrong or if Megatron had decided to try a new position or a new ‘game’ altogether.

Lips brushed against his forehead in a soothing kiss. From so close, he could hear the Warlord’s vents working hard, showing his body was probably running as hot, if not hotter than Optimus’ own. Perhaps there was something to take pride from here, but it didn’t come to Optimus processor as he listened Megatron speak. He had a nice voice... 

“You performed beyond my expectations, Autobot. I hadn’t thought you’d bring me so close so fast, but you did,” the darkly colored mech rumbled, and he sounded faintly pleased; Optimus’ Spark fluttered briefly without knowing why. “That’s not how I want to end things, however. Spread your legs,” he ordered, and Optimus obeyed, spreading them wider with some worry. Had Megatron finally decided he wanted to take him ‘properly’ now? But the Warlord’s spike was still placid, ever since his previous overload, so certainly…

Optimus didn’t yelp as the Warlord grabbed one of his thighs and lifted it; he could only watch silently as Megatron slipped a leg under his raised one and shifted, lying on his side while bringing himself closer to Optimus, until his bare valve was brushing against Optimus’ and… Oh. Oh, the Prime sighed softly as Megatron released his leg, allowing him to rest in a more comfortable position.

Now he understood what the Warlord wanted. He had never tried it himself, of course, but… there had been two slaves in the barracks -- Conjunx Endura, he had learned from whispered conversations, captured together when the Decepticons had attacked their outpost -- whom he had surprised rubbing their valves together in the barely existent privacy of their shared slab. It had been discreet, and they had barely made any noise in pleasure or otherwise, but Optimus’ audio had still caught the way they had been murmuring soft words of comfort to each other, and even if the Prime had blushed and looked away, his programming and Elite Guard Cadet training telling him it wasn’t proper at all, that no self-respecting Autobot should be caught doing something so crass, he couldn’t have helped but envying them that closeness and love they had, even in the Pit they were living in.

And now, from all logic, it was Megatron who wanted to rub their valves together until they reached overload. Red optics gazed at him with perfect serenity, but he could feel how hot the Warlord’s plating was -- as hot, if not hotter than his, and the idea of washracks and their cool water suddenly felt very good in the back of Optimus’ processor.

“Shall we?” the Warlord asked softly, and he rolled his hips. His valve, lubricant beads visible among the folds, grinded easily against Optimus’ own, and the Prime whimpered as a bolt of heat made his way from the valve to his Spark chamber. So good! Oh, Megatron had really worked him up, he thought sluggishly as he rolled his hips as well, but in the direction opposed to Megatron’s own rolls. Obviously, it was the right way to process, because the Warlord gasped loudly while Optimus moaned helplessly, hands closing in fists in the bedding.

Primus, so sensitive!

“Yeeeeessss, like that!” he heard Megatron growl, but it reached him as through a blanket of fog. His processor was growing hazier and hazier with each passing klik, and the rolls he gave with his hips were few and sluggish at best. It didn’t seem to bother Megatron, who rolled his in earnest, making Optimus’ body rock with each one.

Tears of cleansing fluids escaped the Prime’s optics as he whimpered, louder and louder, knowing he was _right there_ , charge crackling through his systems, just needing an out to disperse, and he was going to _go off any klik now_!

Optimus didn’t roar; he didn’t have enough energy and coherence left for that. Instead, he let out a long, low pitched moan as he hit another overload and felt fluids dripping from his valve, his release making its way out of his body. He moved weakly, trying to get in a more comfortable position to lay in. His processor churned, his vision spinning and progressively darkening at an alarming rate. His alarms list scrolled down, warning him that his fuel levels were down to 15% now, and his body was initiating immediate shutdown to conserve energy.

Oh. So that’s why he felt so tired. That was his last coherent thought before darkness claimed him, even as he distantly registered Megatron’s distinctive roar just above him.

*-*-*-*-*

Well… That last overload had been intense.

Not as intense as he would have like or as intense as it would have been if he had managed to bury himself in a hot, tight valve, but intense all the same. His systems were working themselves though a pleasant tingle that made his CPU almost mushy. His valve folds were now thoroughly soaked, both from his own release and from the Autobot’s own, and his long spend spike had recessed further, ready to be tugged back in its sheath when the Warlord would decide to. For now, however, he had no problem with letting it hang limply out of its sheath while he shook his head to clear his thoughts and disentangled himself from his lover’s body.

Said body, now he was getting some processor power back, seemed to be far limper was than he would have expected. Glancing to the side, he raised an optic ridge as he noticed the slave was definitely out cold, his blue optics having turned grey.

Not really surprising, he realized with fond amusement as he gently nudged the white and blue leg away from his own in order to slip under and roll to the side. Even if Megatron had feed him treats, the little mech had remained underfueled, and their activities -- and the handful of overloads they had both experienced -- had evidently taken their toll on their reserves, and on the Autobot’s in particular.

Optics shuttered, vents working slowly if regularly, lips slightly parted in his recharge -- and he was in recharge, not just knocked out by the dispersion of his charge, his systems were humming too faintly to be about to reboot at any close point -- turned to the side, using an arm bend under his head as a makeshift pillow, one knee raised higher than the other, the Autobot made a cute sight to behold. Cute… and peaceful as well. Free from the tension his frame kept due to fear, he seemed smaller, but also less… fragile. Innocent, but less fragile, Megatron decided.

He watched him for a few moments, pondering what to do. Despite his hopes and his best efforts, he wasn’t quite sated, but if the Autobot had fallen asleep already, Megatron saw little point in waking him up -- he’d be knocked out again in no time, and if he really was that tired, then it’s was doubtful he’d manage to stay awake through whatever activity Megatron decided upon. Perhaps, if he managed to fuel him a little…? But no, he didn’t have any leftover treats, and he was reluctant to call Straxus’ stooges or his obviously overworked slaves just for a cube of energon. He could always comm. Strika… but that served little point either. She wouldn’t move from his door while they were in a potentially hostile location, and if he sent Lugnut or Blitzwing, then a fight was sure to break out somewhere at some point.

No, he resigned himself. The fun was definitely over for tonight. It just left him to decide what to do with the Autobot. Now, he could have easily pushed him out of the berth -- more space for him, and a slave’s place wasn’t in their Master’s berth if they weren’t fulfilling a need -- but… well, Megatron didn’t feel like being so callous. The Autobot hardly took that much space, and the Warlord really doubted an assassination attempt would come from him.

Oh, Strika would certainly had his helm for this, but…

Gently, he reached out and tugged at the smaller mech’s waist, bringing him closer to him. One large grey arm snaked around the thin waist of the Autobot, holding him close as Megatron settled to get some recharge of his own. The way he foresaw his ‘meeting’ with Straxus going, he was going to need it.

Optics half-shuttered, he allowed himself a small smile at the peaceful look on the Autobot’s face. Now, that was a mech he wouldn’t mind getting in his berth again another time, when he was more healed.

Come to think… despite everything they had done tonight, Megatron hadn’t asked for the red and blue mech’s name, not even once, he realized slowly as recharge crept on him. They had just been ‘Master’ and ‘Autobot’ all night long.

Ah, no matter he finally decided, a smirk on his lips.

He would still be able to ask him in the morning.

**End**


End file.
